Happy Endings
by Fever Dream
Summary: The Blight is over, the Grey Wardens have been restored to favour and the cunning, sometimes unscrupulous Elendra Cousland rules at the side of King Alistair Theirin. But even in happy endings, there are winners, losers and dire prices to be paid.
1. Cold Comfort

**Anora**

This is what mercy looks like: a chilly room, a narrow bed and a table bolted to the floor. My world shrinks with each passing day and my only reminder of the city outside is a glimpse of sky through the barred window. It is becoming more and more difficult to remember my lavish quarters in the Palace, the glory of the throne room and its ceremonial hall or the pleasure I once took in standing before the Bannorn. I lose the ability to command and am reduced to begging for trivial things, to relying on the mercy of lackeys and simpletons, which is hateful to me.

Yet, though the Bastard Prince and the Cousland usurper have staged their little coup, murdered my dear father and stolen my world away from me, I will not forget who I am or what I was born to be. I am the true Queen of Ferelden, wife of a king and daughter of the nation's greatest general, and I will find a way to reclaim my throne.

I managed to convince my former warder to give me pen and paper so that I might while away the hours in recording my thoughts. I had hoped to bribe him into smuggling letters out for me, words of encouragement to the few but faithful supporters of House MacTirrh, but the insufferable wretch dashed my hopes almost at once. He gave me the items but imposed a dread condition: at the end of each day he would collect everything I wrote and destroy it before my eyes, reducing my daily efforts to scraps and ashes. If I wrote on after that, it was only to combat the mind-numbing tedium and to admire my own penmanship.

Thankfully, I have recently acquired a new warder and he is quite different, much more amenable to my requirements. It helps that he is an elf and has little concern for human politics aside from his own benefit. Being poor, elves are not prone to loyalty – it is much too expensive for them.

Of course, honour is a luxury for all in these dark days. I had little in the way of money to bribe this latest warder with and so I've been forced to make promises of future wealth and, in the meantime, have had offer...other enticements. These seemed to please him well enough and we have come to an understanding of sorts. For the past few weeks, the new warder has taken my ciphered letters from me for delivery to Erlina, Thomas Howe and my father's allies in Tevinter, Rivain and the Free Marches.

If necessary, I may even contact Empress Celene in Orlais – perhaps we can negotiate something, as I'm sure she would prefer me sitting on the throne to the disturbing precedent set by the ascension of Maric's by-blow and an unscrupulous Grey Warden. I know the very idea of such an alliance would make Father's blood run cold, but then, he could be a trifle irrational when it came to Orlais. I am loath to contemplate how he would have acted if asked to choose between my eternal captivity and a reasonable alliance with the Orlesians, even one with favourable terms. While I do not doubt his love for me, I suspect that he would have shaken his head regretfully and let me rot in the Tower. It is a troubling thing, but it is also the kind of sacrifice that kings must make. I doubt the Cousland harlot would understand it, having set a hopeless naïf to ruling Ferelden out of blind love and her own foolish pride.

But now I hear the sound of a key in the lock. Surely, it must be time for my evening meal, since my stomach has been grumbling at me for several hours now and my little candle is shortening and dripping wax at an alarming rate. I am positively famished. I do wish that the new warder would knock before opening the door, but I imagine that he gets a sordid thrill from the possibility he may catch me in a state of undress. Little people enjoy their little powers, especially when they may degrade those who once stood on the heights.

My warder walks in carrying a lantern and a tray of food, which he sets down on the table before me. I see a flask of water, some stale-looking bread and a bowl of stew that smells a bit more appetizing than the slop and dregs I usually receive. But perhaps that's just the hunger speaking.

"Good evening, my lady. You must be wanting your meal. The cook has been most neglectful and I had to remind him to prepare your supper."

He gives me his most ingratiating smile and I have to admit that he is rather comely, although he is a sly, smarmy villain, common as dirt.

"Very well," I reply. "Better late than never."

He stands there, watching me, with an expectant look on his face as if he wants me to thank him for doing his job so inefficiently. I may have to pet the dog once in a while, but he will be waiting a long time before I offer gratitude for gross incompetence.

"Have you any letters for me today?"

"No, I have not," I answer. "I am waiting for replies, which seem rather slow in arriving. I hope you are not holding them back from me or you will be doing yourself a great disservice."

"Oh, no, I would never dream of such a thing. Perhaps messengers have been delayed by the reconstruction efforts along the Imperial Highway."

I pick up the grimy spoon, polish it on my sleeve and sample the stew. It does taste better than usual, probably because it doesn't contain quite so much boiled cabbage.

"Is the stew to your liking, my lady?"

"It will do."

I cast an icy glare in his direction, hoping that he will take the hint and desist in pestering me. One would think the Tower of Denerim would be a place of privacy, but one would be mistaken. I take another few spoonfuls of stew, feeling his eyes upon me still.

"In the Maker's name, what do you want? Must you loiter there and gawk at me? I was unaware that I was to be the evening's entertainment."

My warder shrugs, displaying his usual admixture of apathy and doltish good cheer. "I'm simply waiting."

"For what, precisely? For Andraste to rain blessings down upon you? Get yourself hence!"

He chuckles at this, impertinent creature, and leans back against the wall, making himself more comfortable. When I am Queen, I shall have to pay him the riches I've promised, for I am not a liar, but thereafter I will order the guards to remove his head from his shoulders as recompense for these vile tricks he plays me.

The elf reaches out a gloved hand and snuffs out the candle on the table. "If you must know, I'm waiting for you to die, my lady. I expect it will happen in about a minute now."

I am undone.

I should have known. They would not serve me good food unless they were desperate to have me eat it.

"Of course, if you wish to hurry the process along, you can take another few spoonfuls of that stew. It's quite tasty, isn't it?" the elf says.

His voice has always contained a tinge of something foreign, but now he does not trouble to disguise his country of birth. The Antivan accent is unmistakeable and any fool knows what that means: a Crow.

"They will pay for this. I am still the daughter of Ferelden's greatest hero. I am still the dowager Queen. The people will demand justice."

The elf regards me with an air of pitying bemusement. "Oh, my, but you are mistaken. You are but a thorn in the side of Ferelden's greatest hero and she tired of your ambitions long ago. This is justice."

My head thumps down on the table, my cheekbone smashing against the edge of the stew bowl. The soup spoon catapults into the air, there is a metal clamour against the stone floor and I feel a spatter of warm stew seeping into the cloth of my dress.

The hazy world orbits around me, placing a weight upon the back of my skull like a terrible crown. Something dribbles from my mouth, trickles out of my ears – my body acts against my will, against my dignity. I try to move my hands to stem the flow, but they will not budge. This is crueller than a sword in the throat, worse than mounting the gallows, where at least I might speak before a crowd.

The Antivan elf is still gloating, but I can hardly hear him now. I can only hope Father will forgive me, for I have lost and I fear history will be unkind to us, despite all these noble intentions.


	2. The Wolf

**Zevran**

I don't believe I'll feel much sorrow over having to quit my part-time job at the Tower of Denerim.

Mind you, I enjoy a devious nature, which dearly departed Anora had in spades, but overall, she was a bit of a cold fish. A lady has to be most talented at hypocrisy to throw around the words 'harlot', 'wench' and 'whore' as if they were insults and minutes later, sell her body for the price of postage on a letter or two. There were times when I was quite tempted to inform the sweet ice princess that the ladies and gentlemen over at The Pearl charge a vast deal more for their favours and tend to possess nicer manners to boot. Of course, being a professional, I tried to make the experience as pleasant as can be and to render our rather abrupt parting a cordial one. When death makes its grand entrance, I like to think it comes with a smiling face and great customer service.

I'm walking back through the Palace's Great Hall to issue my report on a job well done and I must admit it's a strange, giddy feeling to able to just stroll into a throne room and shoot the breeze with royalty. In my former life, my encounters with royals involved insidious traps, poisons and various other subterfuges and the only thing I planned on shooting was a crossbow, usually into the stomach of a particularly troublesome prince. Nowadays, I'm a bit of political player myself, as much of a bodyguard and an advisor as I am a dagger-for-hire.

I give a nod to the guards and one of them raps on the massive throne room door using a heavy silverite knocker shaped like a griffon's head. A bit tacky, if you ask me, but then for some reason, nobody sees fit to consult the assassin for tips on interior decor. Elendra has been refurbishing the Palace a bit and while I'm fond of luxury in any form, her tastes are a bit provincial for my liking. Aside from the standard array of tapestries, family portraits and gold-embossed ceilings, her decorating scheme involves countless references to Grey Wardens' lore, a bizarre fixation on griffons, tributes to noble dog companions and many, many statues featuring blandly attractive women holding bowls, which appear to be obligatory here in Ferelden. I imagine the Orlesians would dub the effect both barbaric and "nouveau riche" but I must say that I've grown rather attached to the people of this chilly country with their plain-speaking ways and mysterious veneration for filthy, slobbering creatures. There's something wonderfully naive, almost childlike, in their attempts at grandeur.

When I enter the throne room, Her Majesty is sitting primly on her throne and as usual, she has cushion positioned under her charming rear to negate the difference in height between her seat and the King's. She claims it's for comfort, but, to use the vulgar Fereldan expression, one cannot shit a shitter, no? She's reading a book and not just any book, I might add, but a certain notorious Antivan tome that has gained a reputation for its cynical (and very practical) advice to princes.

While Elendra's knowledge of the Orlesian language is execrable, she does seem to have a knack for Antivan. I must confess this pleases me, because when I manage to seduce her, it would be delightful to have the pillow talk occur in my native tongue. It is far more musical and erotic than this common language, which hits the ear like stones.

I approach the throne and give her a bow - a very cursory one, more of an elaborate nod really.

"Ah, I see you've been investigating your gift. Do you find the subject matter interesting?"

Elendra looks up and her cheeks flush quite charmingly, although I'd be a fool if I believed that she was actually blushing or that she didn't fully intend to have me catch her in the act of reading the book I sent all the way to Antiva City to procure for her.

"Yes. It's certainly thought-provoking," she replies, marking her page with a red ribbon. "I'd say that most of Ferelden's nobility plays by similar political rules; they're just not quite so practised at the game or so willing to admit the stakes."

"Ferelden is such a charming, prudish place. I like to believe you keep me around to liven things up a bit."

Her lips betray the traces of a smile, albeit a rather grudging one. "And to kill traitors, when necessary. Have you finished your bit of business?"

"Yes. Anora enjoyed her supper."

"It was quick, I hope? Was there much pain involved?"

I smile and laugh, brazen as can be, although I'm already starting to regret spicing Anora's stew with Heavenly Crown. The poison had appealed to me because it's virtually undetectable and on a more poetic note, because its name possessed a certain pleasant irony, but the evidence I've seen leads me to believe it is quite an agonizing way to go. If I were to venture a guess regarding the pain factor, it would place somewhere between bleeding out from multiple stab wounds and a half hour on the rack.

"If you care about her comfort, my queen, you're more of a delicate flower than I presumed. Did you want me to sing her a lullaby too?"

Elendra gives me such a smouldering glare that, were she a mage, I wouldn't be dreadfully surprised to find my hair ablaze. Thank goodness she is not a mage, as I do like my hair very much indeed.

"As far as I'm concerned, you can deal with traitors as you please," she snaps. "But it took a great deal of persuasion on my part to make Alistair see the necessity of this. I can't very well go and tell him you fed Cailan's widow Lanthrax and lounged around watching her suffer through all seven stages."

It's hard not to chuckle at this –after all, she was the one who insisted I outline the exciting seven stages of Lanthrax poisoning for her in unwavering detail. If I abstain, it is because I know it will infuriate her even more and a happy queen is a queen who pays me better coin.

"Her death was quick. And the pain...well, all pain is relative, no? Of course, the Lantrax scenario would have made a fascinating experiment, but I restrained myself on that one."

Thankfully, she waves off any further concerns with a well-manicured hand. "Oh well, good riddance, I say. I am grateful for the effort you put in. I know it can't have been easy hanging about that drafty old Tower for a week, jumping at darling Anora's every whim."

"For you, dear lady, I would brave almost any inconvenience. Especially if there's gold or a tidy sum of sovereigns involved."

"Oh, never fear, you'll be well-rewarded. If I'm to keep a wolf at my side, I like to ensure it never goes hungry."

I don't starve, this is true. Nevertheless, she might do much more to satiate my unique needs, if she so desired, if she would only see how nicely our interests align.

I bare my teeth in a grin. "Hmm, a wolf, am I? My queen, if ever I were to bite you, I promise I wouldn't draw any blood."

"Most comforting, I'm sure."

She arches an eyebrow at me, although at this point, it's difficult to discern whether she finds me incorrigible or irresistible. It may be a little of both, since, for all her protestations of nobility and fidelity, she's a bit of a tease.

It's at this inopportune moment that the poor wolf Zevran finds himself in a decidedly awkward position, for I can hear King Alistair, her royal hound, baying just outside the throne room doors. Or rather, I can hear the guards clanking around in their showy armour and the sycophants outside bowing and scraping and practically urinating themselves in admiration.

Alistair is a fine enough fellow, but he and Elendra make an unlikely pairing. Aside from putting a crown on her head, I suppose he's rather handsome in the clumsy, oafish way that Fereldans favour - and of course, power is always a thrilling aphrodisiac, even if it's wielded by one who's too squeamish to put it to interesting uses. Nevertheless, how tiresome it must be for a practical woman to be chained to a man who complicates everything pleasurable with intricate rules of 'honour' and refuses to see that the best way to manage one's life is to sin now and repent later. Much later, if possible. Preferably on one's deathbed, unless a Crow arranges a change of venue.

Alistair strides into the throne room, noting my inauspicious presence, and exchanges a meaningful glance with Elendra, one I have marked increasingly as of late. If I were to translate such a look into words, it would say: _"Maker's breath, must the assassin always be underfoot? Must he always lurk about, conspiring with you?"_

I have stored up many silent ripostes to these unspoken tirades, but if there's one thing the Crows have drilled into my brain, it is to avoid such foolish confrontations. How much easier it is to smile and be gracious and make wild love to a man's wife when he is off doing something noble and doesn't have a sword poised at one's throat.

Alistair gives me a nod of acknowledgement and the usual stilted greeting. "Zevran...an unexpected pleasure, I'm sure."

"Your Majesty. It is an honour."

I clasp the Royal Hand as if it's priceless treasure and offer him an elaborate farce of a bow, although Alistair never seems to realize this is mockery. Like many Fereldans, he is apparently under the impression that Antivans are prone to such ridiculous excesses of adoration. If I do the thing, it's for my own enjoyment and to thumb my nose at Elendra, who claims to deplore the impertinence of my jests at her husband's expense.

Alistair withdraws his hand from my grasp, turns to Elendra and proceeds to behave as if I'm not in the room. "I take it that the matter has been settled? She's gone?"

"Yes, it's finished. Ferelden is safe from her treachery."

"I'm glad to hear it," he says, although he doesn't appear in a festive mood at all – a bit relieved, perhaps, and a bit queasy. "It was...a necessary evil, I suppose."

Elendra tilts her head a few degrees to the side, her dark eyes liquid, her lovely face a mask of sympathy. She even lays a hand upon his shoulder, which I think is overplaying things a bit, but then Alistair is an easy mark.

"It was justice, pure and simple. Let's not forget that Anora was her father's daughter. If she'd taken the throne, she wouldn't have hesitated to order our deaths. I suspect they would have been painful and public."

"Perhaps you're right. Nevertheless, if it was to be justice, we might have held a trial."

"Darling, what would have been the use in holding a trial?" she replies. "We already knew the verdict. In such cases, surely it's safest to move straight on to the sentencing?"

"Alright, I'll grant you that. But surely, my love, someone will notice that Anora is no longer among the living? I mean, her convenient disappearance from the Tower will seem a mite suspicious and I don't expect we can tell the Bannorn that she was spirited away by a pack of flying dogs."

"Why not? I hear tell that winged canines from the Anderfels are fiercely protective creatures."

"Perhaps, but unfortunately they're also quite...mythical."

"That does pose a problem, doesn't it?" She turns to me and I get the feeling I'm going to have to cut in with some professional expertise. "I was just about to get Zevran's thoughts on the subject, as he has substantially more experience with these unfortunate necessities than you or I."

Of course, I must admit that I'm happy to be drawn back into the conversation. Listening in on a married couple's domestic squabbles is not my idea of a fun way to spend an afternoon, even if the chore they're quarrelling over is murder.

"Firstly, I'll say that poor Anora left a very presentable corpse, so a post-mortem or a subdued funeral for appearance's sake would not be out of the question," I answer. "We could simply say she fell ill, no one could heal her and she expired, much to the grief of everyone she tried to stab in the back."

Alistair rakes his fingers over the red-gold stubble on his chin and pretends to think deep thoughts. "Hmm, yes, that is better than flying dogs. No wonder I've never had much success as a liar."

Meanwhile, Elendra's lips have twisted into a sardonic smile, an expression that sorely tempts me to steal her off and do all sorts of fantastically depraved things to her."I don't suppose we can come up with an explanation for this mysterious ailment? I don't think 'Zevran-itis' is going to cut it as a medical diagnosis."

I shrug my shoulders and give my head a bit of shake, if only to clear my mind from such transporting visions of debauchery. "Perhaps sweet Anora contracted the Alienage plague. It seems fitting after her father's crimes, wouldn't you agree?"

"I like poetic justice as much as the next fellow, but that's unlikely to fool anyone," Alistair says. "I'd say living in the Tower of Denerim is a pretty effective quarantine."

"Ah, but she had a warder," I improvise. "A devilishly handsome elf who also happened to be rife with all manner of communicable knife-ear diseases."

Alistair smirks. "Hmm, I can't say I'm buying the 'devilishly handsome' part but the infectious diseases– that I can believe in."

Well, your Majesty, if I have any of those, I look forward to passing them on to you after I slide between the sheets with your scrumptious wife. Life is full of so many little jokes, is it not?

"Not bad. Creative, at least," Elendra says. "It's a bit sordid, however, and the last thing we need is more fuel for gossip at the Gnawed Noble. Besides, it might spur a backlash against the City Elves and that would run counter to the initiatives we've set for economic development in the Alienage. We can't risk that."

Oh, how tedious it is when she beats this drum about helping elves help themselves! Everyone should just help themselves, period, to whatever they need or desire, instead of waiting about for some bleeding-heart to pull them out of the gutter. It's all too easy to become a productive member of society: one must simply pick up a sharp object and kill a corrupt official or two.

"As the card-carrying elf in this room, I'm going to go out on a limb and say we'd savour taking credit for disposing of Anora. Much more fun than a royal charity package."

"Yes, because what are a few bloody riots compared to good joke?" Alistair says, quick as ever to ruin my fun.

Elendra shakes her head, a tantalizing brown ringlet brushing over her collarbone. "I think we'll have to settle for something less...colourful. A discreet consultation with the Royal Healer should help. Worst case scenario: we leave the Bannorn to believe what they like. Perhaps it will make the disloyal ones think twice before hatching some petty rebellion."

"As you please," I answer, so very obliging. Of course, one of these days, I'll expect a satisfying return on this investment of forbearance and good cheer.

"Thank you for your advice, Zevran," Elendra says. "If you go speak with a gentleman at the Treasury, I expect you'll find a satisfactory reward for your service to Ferelden."

Ah, and that is my cue to leave. I expect the happy couple will have a most interesting conversation after I've departed. I trust Elendra will win the argument, as she usually does.

Sometimes I'm quite envious of women and their wiles. Once they've ripped away the virginity of a poor innocent like Alistair and introduced him to all manner of earthly delights, they will proceed to deprive the man of his Maker-given will – which, in our good templar's case, was already quite negligible - and merrily lead the gallant fool down their devious paths. Why the rich widow who plucked my carnal flower might have done the same to me, had I not smothered her with the pillow five minutes later... I jest, I jest! My first time was with another boy and if he's dead, it wasn't by my hand.

But let's not get sidetracked, shall we? I'm off to collect my reward for a job well done and, aside from Denerim lying in squalor and devastation, a pack of scheming nobles to keep in order and assorted royal murders that need covering up, the birds are singing and all is right with the world!


	3. All These Necessary Sins

**Elendra Cousland**

A certain predicament has been plaguing me for months now, the kind of problem that can't be persuaded away, paid off, put to the sword or poisoned. For a while, I entertained the idea that Zevran might offer a solution.

In retrospect, I see it as a sign of desperation more than anything: Zevran is blonde certainly, but his hair is much too yellow to serve my purposes, like the fluff of a new-hatched chick, and ideally what I'm shopping around for is a shade of rusty gold or ginger. His olive complexion would also have been a difficult ingredient to stir into the mix – I need something ruddier, more prone to blushing.

There were some distinct advantages to my initial plan, mind you. On the plus side, Zevran has proven himself quick-witted, good at keeping secrets and even quite loyal, in spite of the fact he once tried to stab me in the back – literally. More importantly, he has never overburdened himself with sticky moral quandaries. I think he would have savoured the role of eccentric "Uncle Zev", paying visits to the child on the occasional birthday or dispensing a few words of wicked advice, but remaining a friendly, corrupting influence on the sidelines. From what I've read, the elf thing wouldn't have been an impediment either. The ears always come out round.

What really gave me pause was the glaring issue of height. Of course, I'd never have mentioned that to Zevran, who spends enough time in the company of humans to have acquired some insecurity about being a tad on the diminutive side. It has nothing at all to do with aesthetics or even personal preference - it's just a very practical concern. Alistair is a dear and would not be apt to complain if his heir was a half-pint, but I suspect the nobles would remark on the difference between a delicate-boned son and his tall, strapping 'father'. And as I've quickly come to learn, legitimacy is all about appearances.

Mind you, I might have gone through with it, if there hadn't been other complications. Unfortunately, Zevran likes to flirt with danger, whether he's getting paid for it or not. Almost as soon as I had a crown on my head and a ring around my finger, he decided that it would be a wonderful game to tease me and provoke Alistair with increasing degrees of lewdness. One priceless example: upon the happy day of my marriage, he presented me with a political text from Antiva, leather-bound and at first glance, quite innocent ... until, a hundred pages in, one discovers the sketches he's made in the margins, all anatomically correct, with inventive positions of his own devising. But he's not simply an imaginative pervert; he also has a remarkable talent for being in the wrong place at the right time. For the past few months, whenever I plan to enjoy some connubial bliss with Alistair, Zevran pops up like a bloody jack in the box!

As a girl, I used to entertain daydreams about two men vying for my attentions, but it's neither fun nor flattering when they treat you as a prop in their usual absurd jousts of maleness, butting heads like a couple of halla in rutting season. And I swear, it's only gotten worse since Alistair started carrying around a very large sceptre. With their silly rivalry heating up, I'd have been a fool to ask Zevran to help me with the awkward mechanics of producing an heir. Instead, for the sake of my marriage, I'm probably going to have to arrange a promotion for him in the Crows and stick him on the next boat to back to Antiva.

It's a shame, really. I'll miss having a cheerful sociopath on staff. Court won't be the same without Zev prowling about in his finery, humming under his breath and reeling off filthy verses for every occasion. I'm certain that, after he's gone, my ladies-in-waiting will be heartbroken for at least a week, becoming most neglectful of their duties, scribbling despairing entries into their diaries and sobbing their secret grief into scented pillows late at night - the cad! He also did an excellent job of polishing off Anora, Thomas Howe and few other loose ends for me and he's a joy to have around when he isn't antagonizing Alistair. Nonetheless, I love my husband (and my husband's sanity) and, if observing Mother and Father's marriage has taught me anything, it's that outsiders should never be allowed to undermine the partnership shared with one's spouse. As useful as he may be, it's time to bid Zevran a fond farewell.

With Zev out of the picture, I've had to find another way to resolve the unpleasant duty of making an heir. That's why I'm here in Highever, in the Commons Tavern, dressed like a common bawd while I make eyes at every male commoner who might possess the least bit in common with my uncommonly wonderful and all-too-trusting husband. I hope that tonight my love's sleep is sound and his dreams are pleasant. In slumber, one may trust he will be safe from any premonition, any inkling, that his wife and queen is out searching for another man to get her with child.

On the night that Alistair went to perform that Maker-forsaken ritual, I paced the floor like a caged animal, trying not to contemplate what might be happening but unable to stop the grim speculations. I remember how powerless I felt, awaiting his return from another woman's bed – I remember it all too well - and yet I cannot say that it is any easier to be the one forced to play false with love. Having each taken our turns at being traitor and betrayed, having each sacrificed a part of ourselves that was a little too innocent, perhaps we will find that the scales are balanced. I need to believe that this is so, for all else leads to ruin.

As one might expect on such a mission, I've downed few more pints of ale than is strictly necessary or advisable and I have all the makings of a successful floozy, even if my first attempts at a one-night stand have not worked out so well. I approached two good candidates earlier this evening at The Sword and Stone but the first one kept asking me riddles and then passed out on the bar and the second turned out to be wooing the barmaid...and she didn't like me in the least bit.

The prospect I'm eyeing up now is the best physical match I've seen yet, which is convenient as it must be drawing close to midnight and I'll need to return to the estate before daybreak.

The man is good-looking enough, in the hale and hearty way that gives one the impression of a prosperous young farmer. His build is a decent match to Alistair's, especially the breadth of the shoulders, and he has the same square jaw. There are some negatives too: his hair is wheat-coloured without a hint of red and he has a rather insignificant nose, not the regal, aquiline sort that seems to be a Theirin signature. Of course, if I'm going to compile an inventory, I'd rather he was Alistair entirely, in body, in mind, in heart - dear Maker, in soul, too, if such a thing exists - but sometimes we don't get everything we want. This will have to do.

I sit down at the bar next to my unknowing victim and order another much-needed pint from the barkeep. He's quick about bringing it and I decide I like him. I'll be sure to leave a nice tip.

My unwary target turns and gives me a quick once-over so I shoot him a wink and switch on my accent, a nasty impression of a serving maid that I used to do for Fergus' amusement. We had a lot of fun talking back and forth in these preposterous voices, dropping our aitches and abusing grammar with utter impunity until Mother caught us at it and gave us a horrid scolding for mocking the help – I doubt she ever imagined it might prove useful one day.

"Well 'ello, there. What's a handsome sort like you doin' all by his lonesome?"

"Oh, I doan know," he slurs. "Just lurking about. So tell me: where's a lass like you been all my life, huh?"

Killing darkspawn, mostly. It's too bad I kept a charmer like this one waiting. Of course, if I should casually mention that I'd been out slaughtering genlocks instead of milking cows and feeding poultry, he'd think I'd lost my mind. Instead, I simply giggle into my hand and look coy.

"The name's Rupert," he says, leaning in close. "What do you go by, sweetie? Bet it's somethin' real pretty..."

"My friends call me Bess."

He's leering at me and all I can think is that his eyes are the wrong colour, this cold, watery shade of blue. "And how's about the ones that ain't so fond? What do they call ye?"

"Well, I wouldn't be tellin' you that, for I'd surely hate to lose your good opinion."

It would appear that "Bess" is a babbling simpleton with feathers for brains, among her many other sterling qualities.

"Oh, it's that bad, is it?" Rupert replies. "I'd say you're something of a naughty wench, Bessie."

Oh, sweet Maker, you must be kidding me.

I pass another fifteen minutes in enlightening conversation with this back-alley lothario and then we're off to get a room. They rent them by the hour here, little wood-panelled cells without a hearth to warm them or a stick of furniture besides a narrow, creaky bed. I strip off my clothes, steel my will and we get the deed done. It's all just a matter of closing one's eyes and thinking of Ferelden.

I'm pleased to say that Rupert – if that is his real name – is more of a sprinter than a long-distance runner, since at this juncture I have neither the patience nor the stomach for foreplay. Once he's finished plugging away and I've got the thing I've come for, I roll off the bed and start gathering up my clothes. I try to be quick about it, too, in the hope that he won't notice my battle scars. A milkmaid or a tavern wench would have to be extremely accident-prone to get the kind of marks I wear on my skin.

"You're a funny bird," Rupert grumbles, fastening his pants. "What's your hurry?"

"Well, we're paying by the hour, ain't we? Figured I'd save you some coin."

It's occurred to me that it might be wise to get rid of him. It wouldn't be difficult. There are compelling reasons to do it and I can think of at least three different methods of accomplishing the task, but instead, I just slip on my blouse and comb my fingers through my hair.

"Eh, suit yourself," he mutters. "Should probably be getting home to the wife, anyway."

My eyes widen and while I hate to admit it, the dumb-founded expression I'm wearing isn't the exclusive property of that slattern Bess. "You got yourself a wife?"

I should have known. What a charming pair of adulterers we make, so nice and cozy in this sordid little room.

"Aye, that I do. I expect you've a husband stashed somewhere?"

"And so I might. Got children then? Any sons?"

Rupert shoots me a suspicious look and with his eyes narrowed like that, his slight resemblance to Alistair becomes rather uncanny. Although Alistair only gets that expression on his face when someone mentions blood magic or Morrigan.

"Curious, are you?" he says. "You know what they say 'bout curiosity."

"Something about it killing cats - but I ain't one of those, am I?"

"Nah, I suppose not. I got three sons, Bessie, if you must know."

Bess smiles at him and underneath that, I'm smiling too, because my odds have just improved. "Lucky feller, you. You better get home to 'em and quit straying out in the night. Lots of dangers along these backcountry roads."

Rupert shakes his head and tugs on his boots. "Funny bird."

I sneak back into the castle via the secret passage in the pantry. Scurrying around down there, it's hard not to remember that terrible winter night, the soldiers' boots clomping down the hall, drawing ever nearer as Father urged me to run...

I wish I could tell him that I'm strong now and I keep a firm grip on my shield, just as he warned me. I wish I could tell Mother that I've been practicing with a longbow to keep up the family tradition, that I love a good man and, if ever he fell injured, I'd stay by his side and spend every last arrow protecting him. I'd tell them, too, that I sit on a throne and never again will brutes storm into our house with swords and mauls, to sully our names and slaughter innocents. I'm going to give my husband a son and Ferelden its future king and I will teach my child to honour the part of himself that is Cousland.

I've just changed back into my nightgown and stowed away my peasant's garb, when a scullery maid walks into the pantry.

The poor girl turns ashen and gives a terrible start, gaping at me as if she's just seen an abomination. "Oh! Ex-excuse me, your Majesty! I didn't mean to -"

"Please don't fret, my dear. I simply wandered in for a midnight snack." I grab the first thing that comes to hand: a jar of pickles.

"Why, I'd be most honoured to get you whatever you please! There's bacon and eggs for breakfast..."

I shake my head, cradling the pickle jar to my chest. "You have my thanks, but I assure you, this will suit me just as well."

The girl gives me an odd little smile, one that is too familiar for my liking – although it might be turned to serve my purposes yet. "If you wish it, my Lady, I can ask the cook to make up you something special. Those funny cravings, my Mam had 'em too and they come at the strangest times."

"No, that won't be necessary," I answer. "And if you're wise, I expect you'll keep this matter between you and me and these four walls."

"Oh, yes, Your Majesty! I would never dream of blabbing..."

"Then I will accept your vow, trust and cherish it," I say, tucking the pickle jar under my arm with all the dignity I can muster. "Fare you well."

I manage to make it back to the guestroom without encountering anyone in the hall. When I first arrived, Fergus offered me my old bedroom, but I still can't bring myself to sleep in that place. I went up there once, when I was feeling brave. I walked in and all I could see was Dairren's blood pooling on the floor. By comparison, the guestroom is safe and anonymous, just the place to sleep off a gruelling night and what will likely be a hangover on the morrow.

When I rise tomorrow, I will indulge in a long bath, scrubbing every nook and cranny until there's no trace of Bess or Rupert, until I feel clean and presentable and queenly again in this scarred skin of mine. After that, I shall put on my very best attire, have my lady dress my hair and hie me straight to the Chantry. I'll confide my desire for a child to the Revered Mother there in a sweet and plaintive tone, make a generous donation and have her bless me in the Maker's name. It will make for quite a lovely miracle, I think.

If I had another hundred years of life left to me, I would make proper atonement for my faults and my failings and for all these necessary sins, but my time is short and one cannot dwell in haunted houses. I will stow my secrets and hide my ghosts away, for we must get back to the business of rebuilding Ferelden's prosperity and making the happiness of this family to come. Alistair will arrive in less than a week and I plan to give him a most gracious reception.


	4. Father Figure

**Alistair**

Happiness is a fragile thing. Sometimes it's easy to mark the exact moment when it ends: say you're having this marvellous party and everyone is getting drunk and dancing around maypoles – why, the minstrels have fired up their very best rendition of "Greensleeves" – and then something comes thundering in like a bronto to ruin it. Other times, it's much more subtle, a slow erosion of what you wanted, what you believed to be true. In the midst of your contentment, you catch a glimpse of something, a black mote at the very corner of your eye and you blink, hoping that it will have the good sense to disappear, but it doesn't. In fact, its outlines get clearer and more solid over time, until it takes all of one's mighty powers of self-delusion to pretend that everything is just as it was.

I'm waiting for the assassin, but he's late as usual. He kills a lot of unnecessary, inconvenient things and I'm beginning to believe he had a hand in the death of my happiness.

Zevran doesn't look at all happy when the guards escort him into my study, but I don't think his frown is a sign of guilt gnawing away at his conscience. I imagine he spends more time picking out accessories for his gaudy Antivan get-ups than he does in earnest moral contemplation. If he appears displeased, it's probably because a couple of heavily-armed men dragged him away from the goodbye party he was holding for himself in the Alienage square.

The new guard, Aron, salutes me. "As per orders, Your Majesty!"

His enthusiasm is a bit extreme, but then I can remember being like that, so bloody excited and puppy-dog eager that I kept tripping over my own feet. That was pretty much my first three months in the Wardens. Dear Maker, I even felt that way about being a templar-in-training for a week or two, before I realized they don't actually approve of concepts like joy or laughter or fun. Still liked the outfit though. There are few things as intoxicating to a young man's brain as the sense of identity conferred by a good sword and a well-designed uniform – maybe hearing your beloved say she loves you, but that's it.

I give the guards a nod of recognition. "Thank you. You may leave us."

For once, Zevran doesn't perform some affected bow with a frivolous fluttering of his cape or some ridiculous hand flourishes. Blasted foreigners and their ideas of showmanship.

"Good evening, Sire. What is your wish?"

"I know you're leaving for Antiva tomorrow, but before you go, I have a question for you."

"Oh? Just one? And here I was hoping for an interrogation."

"That can still be arranged, if you like."

"Eh, no. I think I'll manage to do without," Zevran replies. "So what did you wish to ask me? The best way to cleanse white shirts of pesky bloodstains?"

"Actually, I was rather hoping you could tell me who impregnated my wife."

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't blink. His eyebrows don't raise a millimetre.

"I'm afraid that isn't my subject of expertise."

If I want to get a rise out of him, I suspect I'm going to have to dispense with daggers and break out the ballista.

I lift the vile Antivan book from my desk and flip through to the middle, where there are all sorts of puerile pornographic doodles in the margins. "Really? Because I've been catching up on my reading lately and I happened upon this gift you gave her."

I turn the book around and let him take a good look at his artistry. "I'm quite fond of books with pictures, but I'm pretty sure these ones don't do much to clarify the text."

I've never actually seen Zevran's face change colour before. I didn't think it was possible, what with that permanent tan, but as it turns out, when he's caught out or embarrassed, his face turns a peculiar shade of grayish-green. "That – that was a joke. A joke in very poor taste."

"So, exactly how many times have you been with her? How long has this little joke been going on at my expense?"

My voice cracks and I start to get the feeling I may either weep, fly into a mad rage or some unholy combination of the two. I would really like to keep a lid on things. Salvage whatever dignity I have left in this none-too-appealing role of wronged husband.

I take a breath and get it in under control. "I'm just curious to know how big a fool I've been."

"I've never – done that. Not with her."

Zevran almost manages to approximate earnestness, quite a feat for someone who operates in only three modes: lascivious, smarmy and condescending.

"I assure you," he says, "I'm certainly no father to anyone."

"You expect me to believe that? You must think me a very large fool, indeed."

"I'm not going to speculate about questions of...size," he replies. "Nevertheless, you should believe me, because I am speaking the absolute truth. "

"Well, that's the problem with being a liar, isn't it? The one time you say something honest, people just might be disinclined to believe you."

He gives me a sly look or a rather, another variety of sly look from his extensive repertoire. "Exactly how much do you know about the Antivan Crows' policy regarding procreation?"

"Nothing at all. Thankfully."

He gives a hollow-throated chuckle. "Ignorance is not always a virtue, my friend."

"Perhaps not, but sometimes it can be a distinct blessing."

"Not in this case, I think. You see, from a very young age, we Crows dose ourselves with the more popular poisons to build up a resistance. But there is another reason for this: we warm many beds, but we must not be making all sorts of inconvenient infants, no?"

"You're saying you're sterile?"

Zevran frowns, a deep and disapproving furrow appearing on his forehead. "Ah - I do not like that word 'sterile'. Let us just say that it is not possible for a Crow to reproduce – even worse than for Grey Wardens."

I can't help rubbing it in a bit, probably because he's so obnoxiously suave and cocky. "Sterile? Really? The Incredible Zevran, World-Renowned Lover, famous for having seduced everything from wealthy countesses to the knotholes in trees? "

"Let me make myself perfectly clear: I am a very proficient lover. Just not so good at the 'making babies' part. And so, to console myself, I simply have a lot of sex. With people you aren't married to, I might add."

"I don't suppose you can prove this?"

"Go ask an Antivan fishwife and she'll tell you: no children for Crows!" Zevran says. "Can you imagine the number of bastards I'd have sired, were it not so? I would be a bankrupt and half the children in Denerim would've inherited this handsome face."

"Well, it would explain all the relentless over-compensating."

He shakes his head sadly and clicks his tongue against his teeth. "You are so very cruel. I fear you have the makings of a tyrant in you yet."

"So you're saying that this...deceit... is all just my imagination? Is that the gist of your argument? Because I don't think it's convincing me."

"I'd like be convincing, but if I can't do that, I fear I shall have to rely on simply being innocent."

"I thought you were of the belief that no one is innocent."

"You were listening to that, were you?" Zevran seems amused at this, almost flattered. "Well, I'm not strictly innocent, no. But it seems a bitter irony to punish me for the one crime I haven't committed, don't you think?"

I never cease to be surprised at how nonchalant he is about everything, especially his own life. I envy that to a certain extent. It must make for a pretty stress-free existence, to care about nothing beyond the mild diversions of accumulating gold, sniffing leather and trying to have intimate relations with anything that moves.

"If I may be so bold, have you considered broaching this matter with Elendra?" he says. "If anyone is an authority on who may or may not be impregnating her, I suspect it might be she."

"Yes, because if she's having an affair, she's sure to come right out and tell me."

Zevran shrugs. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"I'm glad you can be so casual about this. I should get all my advice from foreign lechers who kill people for a living."

"Pah, you Fereldans make mountains out of – what is the expression? Nug hills?"

He pauses, as if waiting for me to correct him. When I refuse to comment on his knowledge of idioms and glare at him as if he's simply an idiot, he decides to push his luck and keep talking.

"It's all-or-nothing with you people. Either love is perfectly honourable or it's worthless. Either the world is pure and good and wonderful or it's full of blackguards and villains who must be put to your righteous swords. An attitude like that must be very tiring."

"You're coming to a point here, I take it?"

"I'm merely suggesting that there might be a more nuanced way of seeing things," Zevran replies. "But I'll let you draw your own conclusions. As you Fereldans say: 'You can lead a whore to water, but you can't make her drink.'"

"A horse."

"What?"

"It's 'You can lead a horse to water...'"

"Oh, I see. Not quite as interesting, but I suppose that makes sense."

There are a few moments of awkward quiet, in which I hem and haw and try to figure out how to extract myself from this tragically farcical situation. Zevran uses this time for preening his hair and examining the cuffs of his jacket.

"So, what now?" he asks.

"Well, originally I thought I'd send you for a week's hospitality at Fort Drakon," I suggest. "Interested? The accommodations aren't great, but the food is surprisingly tasty. I was quite partial to the gruel."

"I have no doubt you could send me to any number of dungeons. But what would that accomplish, beyond stirring up gossip, disappointing the Crows and ruining a really beautiful friendship?"

I reply with a most un-kingly snort. "Friendship? This is your idea of being friends?"

"Truly, I do not consider myself anyone's friend until he has accused me of seducing his wife at least once. That is just when the lines of communication start opening up."

I heave a sigh. It's difficult to stay angry with someone who appoints himself your friend and insists on enacting that delusion until you feel really quite guilty about wanting to chop off his head.

"Maker's Breath! Just get on the blasted boat to Antiva. I think I'll like you a good deal more when there's a large body of water between us."

He laughs. "I knew you'd see reason."

I'm not quite sure it is reason. More of an irrational dislike for killing things that don't look like darkspawn. Now, attach a genlock head to Zevran's shoulders and I'd have no problem clobbering him. Hmm, actually, that's a rather disturbing thought. I think I'll avoid picturing that from now on.

I summon the guards back in and they escort the assassin out. He smiles his goodbye, but doesn't do anything so foolish as waving at me or dancing a merry jig – although I've a notion that he's sorely tempted to. Bon voyage, Zevran.

I linger about the study for a while, picking up books, cracking their covers and putting them down unread, trying to figure out exactly how I plan to accuse my wife of being pregnant with another man's child. I mean, it's not as if I have solid evidence, just innuendo and a very uncomfortable feeling. I've never thought Elendra unfaithful before. Not that she's an incarnation of the blessed Andraste herself – not by any means - she just always seemed genuine and, well, single-minded, I suppose. While it's extremely unlikely that two Grey Wardens would be able to conceive, I don't know that it's impossible. She may be guiltless; in which case, I've made an unbelievable ass of myself by slandering her and, Maker knows, the best way to keep a woman's love is to imply that she's a harlot.

Without proof of infidelity, I should probably just drop the issue and look forward to being a father. Yet, when doubt wriggles its way into one's brain, it's very hard to pluck the worm out. Who does one trust if not the person one goes to sleep with each night and wakes up to each morning? And what does one recognize if not one's own blood?

I don't know the answers to those questions. I only know that this uncertainty is intolerable.

I guess I should have anticipated that being married wasn't going to be all roses and candied hearts and eating buttered scones in the breakfast nook. After all, it's not as if I've witnessed a lot of happy marriages up close. Lady Isolde spent two decades or so under the impression I was her husband's bastard and aside from a few half-hearted denials, Arl Eamon just let her go right on believing it – lots of arguments there, you can imagine. Big brother and dear old dad weren't exactly doing great in the matrimony department either, I gather, what with Cailan's mania for sharp swords and fast women and Father's interest in the hired help, which led to...um, me, actually. Funny how being powerful, rich and entitled has a way of poisoning love and honour – never would have guessed at that, really.

Standing around, gnawing my lower lip and brooding about it doesn't seem to be doing me any wondrous good, mind you, so I decide to go speak with Elendra. We'll have a chat and maybe she'll come out with something to stop me from leaping to all sorts of mad conclusions. Or not. Perhaps I will jump to many more conclusions and then feel quite tempted to jump off the Denerim Bridge. Isn't love grand?

When I find Elendra, she's sitting in bed in her nightgown, her face half-obscured by the book she's reading. This would all be very convincing, no doubt, if her eyelids weren't still puffy and there wasn't a little cheek-shaped dent in the pillow where she'd been crying.

She puts down the book without bothering to mark the page and gives me a weary smile. "So where have you been hiding yourself? I was afraid I'd lost you forever in this great big house of ours."

"Yes, it's a maze, isn't it? Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a map."

I sit down beside her on the bed, feeling the mattress shift with the addition of my weight. Elendra places her hand on my lap and I grasp it. Her palm is warm, but her fingers feel like icicles and so I rub them between my hands to defrost them.

"Are you alright? You look upset about something."

"I am," she says.

"Well, I'd like it if you'd tell me what's wrong. You know I'm no good at guessing games."

Elendra smirks, giving a rueful little snicker. "No? And here I was thinking we could play a few rousing sessions of 'I Spy' first."

"Len, I'm really not in the mood for delay tactics. It makes everything so very ominous."

"You've been so distant lately. Ever since I told you – about the baby. I thought you'd be happy."

"I am. Happy. But I'm also confused about a thing or two."

"Confused about what?"

"I'm confused about how we got so lucky, I suppose. Two Grey Wardens conceiving a child – well, it's unheard of."

She withdraws her hand from mine. "As I recall, you and I have always had a knack for disproving all those depressing rumours about how dreadful it is to be a Grey Warden."

"You seem to forget that there's always been a cost."

"I never forget that," she replies. "But this world is full of prices to pay. If you don't buy bread for fear of losing a coin, then you shall starve, I say."

"Then tell me, Elendra: what was the cost of having this child?"

When she turns her gaze upon me, her dark eyes wound me more than any blade. "I hope it won't be the loss of your love."

"That isn't an answer."

"What sort of answer do you wish me to give you?"

"A true one."

"I've never lied to you."

"No, but you have a funny way of omitting things," I tell her. "Certain 'harsh realities'."

Elendra lowers her head, her fingers raking into her thick brown hair. "That's true. There are some things I don't want to burden you with."

"I'm king now. I'm supposed be carrying a burden around! That's why they let me wear this very expensive crown!"

"You carry a burden. But you don't need every weight in the world hanging upon your conscience. As I see it, you concern yourself with the greater good and I concern myself with the obstacles."

"In other words, you're Anora and I'm Cailan. Do I have that straight?"

She stares at me, stricken, although I don't know if it's because the idea has never occurred to her or because she can't believe I had the gall to say it out loud. "That's – a terrible thing to say."

There's a part of me that wants to take it back and make everything all right again. But there's something else inside me, too, a side that isn't 'biddable', good or loving, a bastard part of me that used to feel an almost irresistible urge to hurl stones through the Chantry's stained-glass windows.

"Oh, I don't think it's such a bad comparison," I tell her. "You're capable and respected and know how to manage everything. It's a great deal more insulting to me. I'm the grinning idiot who gets to march in front of the army and wave at the crowds."

Elendra's voice is very quiet, almost meek. "I've never thought of you that way."

"No? Because your actions seem to speak otherwise."

"No. I love your humour, the kindness that's in you and the way you relate to people. I love that you can still believe in honour and in justice after some of the things we've seen. Perhaps I keep the worst from you sometimes because I don't want to see your ideals ripped apart. Maybe I don't like being the one who might have to disillusion you."

"Or you dance around it because it's inconvenient for you. Because we might actually have arguments. Because I might disagree and you'd have to change your plans."

"We're arguing now, aren't we?" she says. "And I'm listening. Go on, tell me what's wrong."

"What's wrong is that I want to trust you and I can't. I want things to be as they were before, but it's never going to be the same, is it?"

"'As they were before'? Before when? Before the baby? Before we married?"

"Before I had to worry about you deceiving me."

"Have you ceased to love me then?" There's a little catch in her voice when she says this and for a moment, I believe that she will cry, but she simply sniffles and hides her face in her hands.

If it takes me a moment to answer, it's not because I wish to torment her, to make her sit there, breathless, waiting for the axe to drop. It's because I want to choose the right words, to be as honest and unflinching with her as I wish she'd be with me.

"No. I still love you. But I've begun to wonder if this love of ours is such a healthy thing."

"I'd like to do whatever is necessary to mend it," Elendra says. "I think the child deserves that."

"You never tire of doing 'whatever is necessary', do you?"

"Then let's put duty out of the question. I love you. I want us to be happy. If that means we make some changes, then changes will be made."

"Well, there's one change I'd like right away. I'd like you to be honest with me."

"Honest about what?"

"About everything."

"That's a lot of things to be honest about," she replies. "But I'll do my best."

"So tell me then: will the child look like me?"

"A child tends to look like the man who sired him. So, yes, I imagine he will."

It drives me mad when Elendra takes that rational tone, when she sets her features in that smug scholarly expression, as if she's untouchable and can talk her way out of anything.

"Don't speak to me as if I'm stupid."

She folds her arms across her chest and keeps playing at being a Tranquil. "I'm not speaking to you as if you're stupid. I'm speaking to you as if you're jealous and being irrational."

"Because it's certainly irrational to be jealous when my wife seems to enjoy deceiving me!"

"It's irrational to be cruel to your wife when she'd gladly pluck her heart out of her chest to spare you pain."

Her lovely face contorts with anguish and again I soften, I waver.

"I want to believe you. I want it more than anything."

"I don't see what I can give you, beyond evidence of the love I've borne you and everything we've been through together," she says. "If you want to throw that away, there's nothing I can do to stop you."

"I don't want that!"

"Then what do you want? Tell me."

We sit there in agonizing silence, the full weight of her gaze upon me, seeming to plead for an answer, as I try to conjure up a solution, an escape from this suffering we seem set to inflict on each other. I look down at my folded hands, at the wrinkles that etch themselves across the joints of my fingers.

"I want some time on my own. Some time away from all this. To think things over."

"Away? I don't think that's a good idea," she says.

"The Wardens have called me to Weisshaupt to assist in the memorial to those lost at Ostagar. They're also going to do something to honour you, I expect. One of us should be there and you're in no condition for a long journey."

"So that's it, is it then? You're going to run off and help them build a statue of me? Make sure they get the face right?" Elendra bolts up from the bed and stalks across the room in a fury, her nightgown floating behind her.

I pursue her and try to coax her into facing me. "We'll have some time to think about things. It will be good for us."

She whirls around, furious. "You won't be here for the birth. This child won't know your face unless he sees it on a statue!"

"I will return soon, I promise. We can – start again."

"You're very confident of that, aren't you?"

I start to sputter, to feel as if I'm wax melting under the heat of her gaze. "I can't stay here. I don't like the person this place and these circumstances are making me become."

"What, you mean an adult? A man who may actually have to be a king and a husband and a father and not go chasing after darkspawn with the glorious Grey Wardens?"

Elendra pauses to let all that sink in and then gives sorrowful shake of her head. "You have such a remarkable gift for running away from your responsibilities."

It sinks in, it really does and the truth in it weighs me down like a stone in my gut. "Maybe I do. I'm sorry for that."

An idea occurs to me, perhaps a very stupid one, a gesture she may perceive as just a trick to placate her. I reach into my pocket and take out my mother's amulet. I place it in Elendra's hands and cup her fingers around it. "I wouldn't give this to you if I wasn't going to return."

It occurs to me that, in her current temper, she might decide to smash it against the wall, as I did once long ago. But, no, she accepts it, nodding her head distractedly, as if in the haze of a dream, and cradling the token in her palm.

"Come back to us, then," she says. "You may not wish to believe it, but you're the only man I desire. And while you may have had to settle for surrogates, I don't want that for this child. You're the one and only father our child is ever going to have."

I lean down to kiss her goodbye, but she recoils from my touch.

"Don't. Don't kiss me if you're going to walk out that door," she warns. "If you want to kiss me, kiss me when you come back. And be certain that you mean it. I'm not someone you kiss lightly."

"Very well." I bow my head to her and kiss only her hand. "Upon my return, then."

Elendra doesn't answer – just turns away and picks up her book from the bed. She isn't crying, not yet, but I can hear the rasp of her breathing, the way it comes quick and laboured, wracking her chest.

It occurs to me that I should go to her, put my arms around her and console her, tell her that I won't leave, that I'm done chasing fantasies of a time when we were Grey Wardens and had nothing but the road and a quest before us. I don't know whether I'll ever quite believe her, but somehow that doesn't stop me from believing in her. And yet, it isn't enough to keep me from abandoning her in that bedroom, fleeing down the hall like the bloody coward I've always been when I don't have a sword in my hand and a swarm of darkspawn to slay.

I really am my father's son.


	5. Pretty, Shiny Things

**Zevran **

So it seems I will be travelling on a boat for several weeks. How exciting. All I can say is, it's a good thing I enjoy the company of men or this seafaring business would not work out very well for me. I find that I am already green about the gills from the way the ship keeps rocking back and forth, back and forth, and green is most certainly not my colour.

I lug my bags down the stairs to the lower decks and find my cabin, the first door on the right. The one unfortunate thing about treasure is that it's very heavy and unwieldy, particularly if you pack it up in a hurry. I have a sneaking suspicion this may be why people invented currency, but I am a traditionalist at heart.

My cabin is small and not so very luxurious, but it has one of those lovely ships-in-a-glass-bottle mounted on the wall and a porthole window that I find curiously erotic. Perhaps it is because I get the idea that a giant squid eye might peep in the window when I am doing something scandalous and this amuses me.

Poking around my new quarters, I look at the small writing desk in the corner and find a letter. There is a sizeable gold bar stacked on top as a paper weight and I take this as an auspicious sign. In fact, it would be nice if all written communications came this way, with no troublesome courier who I may have to stab later, just a piece of something shiny to ensure the message gets my full and undivided attention.

I turn the letter over and see the red wax seal of a griffon, so very tacky, and the identity of my anonymous benefactor becomes a bit less shrouded in mystery.

The letter itself is written in blue ink in the kind of meticulous handwriting that one expects only from a Chantry sister or a spinster of middle years.

_Dear Zev,_

_I'm sorry that your stay in Denerim ended on such a sour note. It pains me that any strain might exist upon a relation that has been the source of so much benefit, not only to Ferelden's security but to the development of my own abilities. _

_It is difficult to express my gratitude without becoming inconceivably maudlin and perhaps making you wish to down a vial of poison rather than read my tiresome sentiments, so I will spare you much gagging, eye-rolling and general discomfort and express my thanks in gold instead. You will observe that the gold bar accompanying this letter is large and weighty, as is my debt to you, my friend. _

_I hope we shall all continue on good terms, for it would be a shame and a sorrow to have one unpleasant incident spoil what has been a remarkable few years. It's not often that a person finds one of her closest confidantes in the assassin commissioned to give her a grisly death. If you do not consent to remain an ally, I believe I may end up trying to befriend everyone who attempts to murder me in a mad attempt to find your replacement - with predictably gruesome results. Let that be on your conscience - which, like the Urn of Sacred Ashes, is well-hidden, but does indeed exist._

_Upon your return to Antiva City, if you are amenable, may I suggest paying a visit to The Queen's Garter and inquiring with the madam there about a certain Sapphire? I know you will be busy with your duties as a newly-appointed Master in the Crows but I expect the trip will prove worthy of your time. I would be happy to receive correspondence from you regarding your latest adventures (I'm sorry: 'professional anecdotes') but do investigate the Sapphire first, as I know you like expensive things that glitter and I believe the experience will prove quite instructive. _

_Have a safe and relaxing voyage and I wish you a joyous homecoming, one that will no doubt offer many new opportunities for coin and carnage. It is my great hope that we may continue friends or at very least, proceed as most gracious foes, amicably plotting one another's downfalls for many years to come._

_With much gratitude,_

_E.C.T._

I fold up the letter again and file it away in the hidden pocket of my coat. It's all so touching. Deep down inside my gangrenous soul, I really am a sentimental person, especially when there's filthy lucre involved. I'll ponder all the cryptic references to gemstones that may be persons living in notorious Antivan whorehouses later. I just hope that Elendra Cousland Theirin, the enigmatic _E.C.T_., hasn't taken it upon herself to set me up on a blind date - those never go well.

I'm feeling bone-tired, the wonderful sort of drowsiness where one sinks into the pillow and could get lost in slumber for days, even on a narrow bunk in a boat that keeps lurching from side to side like Oghren on a bender. I snuff out the lantern, strip off my clothes and snuggle into the scratchy woollen blanket, which reminds me pleasantly of my sleeping accommodations when I was a child. One grows actually quite fond of sleeping on the floor in a nest of scruffy blankets, although I don't miss the flea bites or getting kicked awake by one of the other children or the occasional prostitute who wanted the room for a paying customer. Again, I am sentimental and my imminent homecoming is only increasing this fault.

I proceed to have a baffling erotic dream involving me, Alistair, the two Royal Guards and certain guests at my farewell party. I won't elaborate on the scenario overmuch as it is no doubt the product of seasickness and a fevered imagination, but it involved a great deal of rope. It's strange how the Fade sees fit to send me only two kinds of dreams – horrible nightmares about torture devices that start out as unpleasant and end up being exquisitely sexual and bizarre sexual fantasies involving whatever person(s) I happen to encounter during the day, which inevitably turn into horror shows. I suppose it's to be expected when sex and pain and death are all tangled in one's mind and the very act of having one's life threatened seems an incitement to desire.

The next few weeks of sailing on the high seas pass in a sort of delirium. I discover a handsome young Orlesian sailor and manage to entice him into swabbing my deck at regular intervals. I work on my tan, which had been suffering in Ferelden's dreary climate. I listen to the melodious sounds of the seagulls winging overhead and wish that Shale was on board to enjoy them with me. Some people gaze out upon the ocean and find it magnificent, inspiring, a stirring metaphor for everything that is beautiful and sublime in the Maker's world. I look out at the ocean and see a vast deal of water. Then I turn green and vomit over the side.

At last there is a call from the crow's nest (what a funny thing to call it, no? I almost feel I should be perching up there) and we all rush to the starboard (look at the nautical terms I have learned!) to peer out at the hazy yellow outline of the beautiful Antiva City in the distance. I must admit it brings a tear to the eye to be coming home after being so long away. I contemplate the lovely panorama unfolding before me, the stately dome of our great Chantry, the gorgeous spires of the Andriano Palazzo, the tavern in the alley behind that palazzo, where I will do some gaming and perhaps cut a few purses for old times' sake...it is all so scenic and charming and welcoming that I suddenly fear I may dissolve into tears and ruin my hard-earned reputation for extreme manliness. And then I turn green and vomit over the side.

Home, sweet home. I spend the next few days renewing my acquaintance with the most tawdry places and dissolute people I have known in my marvellously varied existence, while avoiding the Crows' palazzo like the wicked plague it is. Of course, while I'm doing this, I am well aware that I will have to return to the fold eventually, lost lamb that I am, and face the ravening wolves that await me there. Oh, they say that we are friends again, that all is forgiven, and I'm sure many Crows are wise enough to fear my vengeance, but there's always one or two who must make things difficult and put me in an ill humour. Some may think that I have lost my edge, but if they test me, they shall discover that, in fact, I carry two sharp edges and put them to very good use.

At last, I get curious about Elendra's note and stroll over to The Queen's Garter to see what might be in store for me. The Garter is not the best whorehouse in Antiva City and certainly not the cleanest, but it does possess the distinction of having the most diverse clientele. This makes it a useful place for meetings, especially meetings where you plan to murder one or more of the attendees. One could enter the place nude and on fire, accompanied by an albino dwarf, a gaily painted troupe of Qunari minstrels and the archdemon itself, and no one would raise a quizzical brow or bat a false eyelash.

I approach the madam at the Garter, who is obviously a lady of some experience, for she has more diamond rings on her fingers than teeth in her mouth. She asks to see the wax seal of a griffon and when I show it to her, she tells me that I will find the Sapphire in the last room on the left and gives me detailed instructions for gaining entry.

I walk down a long corridor, past closed doors that conceal innumerable pleasures, every flavour of desire one might imagine. I find the room easily enough – it is the only suite with a very big, very ominous-looking lock, one that I am grateful I will not have to pick. I proceed to rap on the door five times in quick succession.

"Password?" The voice is husky but has a certain feminine lilt.

"Amaranthine."

I hear the lock click open, the door opens a crack, and a dazzlingly blue eye peeps out at me, long-lashed and heavy-lidded. I believe I have just met Sapphire.

"Show me the griffon."

I offer up my most ingratiating smile and show the wax seal again. "Pleased to make your acquaintance I am Zevran Aranai. Zev, to my friends. I do hope we shall be friends."

The door swings open to reveal the owner of the blue eyes, a tall, striking woman attired in a yellow silk gown. Her face is tastefully painted and her ensemble is quite flattering, but the effect is much too prim and proper for the purposes of prostitution. I'm not as crestfallen by this discovery as one might think – I've seen many ladies and gentlemen of the night over the past few days and don't mind cleansing my erotic palate with something a bit less...professional.

The divine creature frowns at me, a sure sign that she is struggling to resist my charms. She switches from the common tongue to rapid-fire Antivan. "Wonderful. Not just an assassin, but a lady-killer too. Just what I needed."

I follow her into the room, closing the door behind me and bolting it so that we may enjoy absolute privacy. "You are Sapphire, I presume? The one who I am supposed to be in contact with? What is it that you need?"

Sighing, she sits down in a shabby brocaded armchair and brushes a tendril of blue-black hair back from her face. It's an obvious dye job, but who am I to argue with beautiful artifice?

(For, truth be told, my own lovely shade of blonde does not come direct from Mother Nature herself. And let me tell you, during my days of enforced darkspawn slaying and roughing it in the great outdoors with certain Grey Wardens, it was murder to keep up the pretence of being naturally blessed with glorious golden hair. Indeed, had I met a travelling barber, I would have gladly killed him for a bottle of peroxide.)

"What I need is a capable assassin," Sapphire says. "I was told you could do the job."

"A capable assassin? Pah, that is an insult! You can find one of those on any street corner. I am the assassin who assassinates your 'capable assassins'."

"Truly? You bear a marked resemblance to my former hairdresser."

"He must have been very dashing."

"He cut me some unspeakably ugly bangs," Sapphire replies. "But I haven't time to fritter away on witty remarks. I need to know only one thing: are you willing to continue to provide your services to the Crown of Ferelden?"

"Perhaps, but like many things in this life, these services do not come for free. In fact, they are very, very expensive."

"I can assure you: the compensation package is excellent."

I beam like a small child who has been given his very first box of matches. "Then let us speak of fringe benefits!"

"Are you an ambitious man, Zevran?"

"I hold a high opinion of my potential."

Sapphire smiles and it seems that, at last, I have given what she deems a correct answer. "Yes, that was a silly question, wasn't it? In any case, it would appear that the Queen of Ferelden shares this decidedly optimistic view of your potential."

"Well, I should hope so. I've done some first-rate work at her behest."

"The Queen thinks that you would make an excellent leader for the Antivan Crows. We would be willing to support you in this endeavour, provided you are sympathetic to Fereldan interests."

"I'm an assassin. For some odd reason, I'm not always a sympathetic person."

"We wouldn't be issuing any direct orders to you or the Crows. You needn't worry about your independence," Sapphire replies. "We would simply be allies. Friends. Occasionally we might ask favours or come seeking intelligence – if there's any to be found amongst a coven of sex-crazed psychopaths."

Sex-crazed psychopaths? Perhaps. But to imply that we Crows are not smart, thoughtful, cultured, sex-crazed psychopaths? That is a low blow, my friend.

"You know, mocking me and my chosen profession really is such a wonderful way to woo me to your cause."

"I don't use flattery to recruit talent," she replies. "That's what money is for."

"You make an excellent point, actually. But what makes you think that I want to run the Crows, hmm?"

She crosses her long legs and I get a nice glimpse of stocking in the process. "What I think doesn't matter. I'm not even sure I care. But if you're as smart as you seem to think you are, you won't squander a good opportunity."

"Ah, very well. I accept."

It's only when she stands up and we shake hands to cement the deal, that I realize why I find her variety of beauty so unfamiliar, so fascinating. You see, Sapphire's hand is well-shaped and slender, but it is also very large. Unusually so. It envelops my own with ease.

I gaze up at her face again and take a quick inventory of chiselled cheekbones, sleepy blue eyes, a rather stubborn jaw and a pair of sensuous lips that are now set in a scowl. I am surprised at myself for failing to recognize...the more androgynous features. Either she is very, very good or I have lost my touch. I suspect it is the former.

"Would you mind blinking, please?" she says in her low, caressing voice. "I haven't given you permission to stare."

I wouldn't say I'm embarrassed, but I am ashamed to have her think I was looking at her with anything other than interest and indeed, desire. "My apologies. It just occurred to me..."

"What occurred to you? That I'm a pretty illusion? Most people are."

"Please do not be mistaken. I am no country yokel, I assure you. Why, I was born in a most charming brothel in this very city."

"You can spare me the life story. And the heartfelt apologies," Sapphire says, reaching for a stack of papers on her desk. "There are some deaths that you and I will need to arrange."

I'm starting to think this might be fun.


	6. Of Roses and Thorns

**Elendra**

Alistair's departure for Weisshaupt requires a public performance, a fond farewell that will serve as a formal display of unity, and so we mount the stage in our gaudy royal costumes and pretend as if we are still in the first months of wedded bliss. It is painful to do, for we have inflicted wounds upon each other, the kind that will not heal in a day, and while they do not bleed openly, they are still very tender, raw to the touch. Managing the court is theatre, always theatre, and there are some days when even I grow tired of treading the boards.

All the sensible nobles have left Denerim to attend to their lands and so our present audience is a charming bunch: the most indolent and dissolute of the banns, a gaggle of giggling husband-hunters and a rowdy contingent of profligate younger sons. I tend to think the ne'er-do-well sons are the worst of the lot. They're monstrous gossips, they play at the gaming tables with money they don't have and they write syrupy sonnets, which they proceed to dedicate to me or one of my ladies in the expectation that we will praise their wit and send them coin to pay off one of their numerous gambling debts. They are also prone to challenging one another to duels over some imagined slight to their honour and while you might imagine this would cause their population to decline quite rapidly, no one ever emerges from these battles to the death with anything worse than a hangnail or a skinned knee.

In any case, this is the courtly group who parade their finery around the palace gates, gawking at Alistair and me as if they're children witnessing a street-side puppet show. If I weren't an actor in this dreadful scene, I might be tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but as I must play puppet and dance on my strings, I'd really just as soon cry. I'm surprised vendors aren't here shilling bags of candy corn and rotten peanuts for our noble audience to munch on while they enjoy the entertainment.

I will not allow Alistair to kiss me while we still quarrel, as I wish to keep at least one thing sacred to love, but after he makes his speech, we cast smiles at each other and share an embrace. When he enfolds me in his arms, I ache with the knowledge that he will soon relinquish me, perhaps forever. Under the pauldrons of his ceremonial armour, I can feel his shoulders shaking and when he exhales, his body shudders into mine. He grips me so tightly that I fear he will squeeze the tears from my eyes.

"Take good care of yourself...and the child," he whispers. "I shan't be away long."

Of course, I'll take care of myself and the child. I'll take care of the entire damn kingdom too, while he's off trying to sort himself out. The journey to the Anderfels will take months and by the time he walks the legendary halls of Weisshaupt Fortress, I will likely have the child cradled in my arms.

I ease back from his embrace. "We'll look forward to your return. Have a safe journey and give my regards to the Wardens."

Alistair mounts the step of the carriage and then turns back to me, his face weary, his lips drawn into a sad, wavering smile. "Goodbye, my love."

He ducks down into the carriage, somehow managing to get his broad shoulders through the narrow entrance, and the footman closes the double doors.

The crowd cheers as the carriage pulls away from the palace gates, and I think of the sound the tide makes as it draws back from the beach, exposing dank sand, jagged shards of shell, driftwood bleached like bone.

When the carriage is out of sight, I walk back to the palace, my retinue of ladies trailing behind me. I listen to them chatter about the beauty of the carriage, the shapely calves of the footman, how sunny the day is for an autumn morning.

In Alistair's absence, my workload is doubled, but I find this daily routine a comfort, a place of refuge. I don't always enjoy the cut and thrust of politics, but I do get a remarkable satisfaction from getting things done. If there is a gap in my life and an empty space in my bed that is about the size and shape of my husband's body, I find that there are plenty of meetings, strategy sessions and public appearances to keep me distracted from loneliness.

When I am not working, then I am studying books on child-rearing, although most of them are written by either middle-aged noblemen or Chantry sisters, the two groups of people who I suspect have the least practical experience of children of anyone in Thedas. Nevertheless, some of the ideas they propose are intriguing. My reading prods me into thinking about how Mother and Father raised Fergus and I, which can't have been easy, as we were the kind of children who enjoyed sliding down banisters, taunting the Mabaris and egging each other on to increasingly suicidal acts of recklessness. I want to be a good mother as my mother was, even if I don't seem to be making such a great success of being a wife.

Right after Alistair left, I removed the dried rose stem from its wooden case and set it out upon my dressing table. It is not lovely, as was the red rose of Lothering. It is a dingy greenish-brown, its leaves have withered away long ago and even many of its thorns are gone, broken off or worn down to nubs. I like to touch the few thorns that remain, testing their pointed ends with my fingertips.

The stem is not an object of beauty or romance, not like the crimson bloom with its velvet-soft petals and its intoxicating scent, but it is the thing that lasts. The flower wilted after three days in my backpack. I tried to press it between the covers of a book and that worked for a while, but then the petals crumbled into black-red flecks that lodged in the binding of the book and reminded me of dried blood. The stem survived all the hardships of the road and of the battlefield and so I keep it and cherish it, because one must admire that which endures. My ladies assume it is an ugly twig and wonder why it would have a place amongst my tokens and treasures, but it has the strange dignity born of suffering and I prize it above any of the fresh bouquets they pluck from the gardens. I look to it as a reminder that some things are worth preserving.

There are moments, sometimes quite extended moments, when I indulge in self-pity, but I chose my own path and I will walk it to the end, wherever it may lead. I don't believe in regret. I am sorry to have caused Alistair pain and doubt, but I have been faithful to him even in my one infidelity. We shall have an heir to throne of Ferelden, a successor to the Theirin line and no one will have any evidence to question the child's legitimacy or name him bastard. I would like the baby to be ours, nurtured between us, for even if it is not a product of our love-making, it was brought into this world by our love. I still hold out hope for our happiness, but if Alistair is too obstinate to take that precious commodity where he can find it, if he is too proud to claim this make-shift family as his own, then the child will be simply mine and I will be both mother and father to it. I do not allow myself regret.

As time passes and my pregnancy starts to become noticeable, life, in turn, becomes more and more surreal. Everyone acts as if they are overjoyed and relieved at the prospect of an heir, but some of them would also like to use my "delicate condition" as an excuse to cut me out of state affairs. There is something innately ridiculous, I think, in the notion that the Grey Warden who slew the archdemon should spend her pregnancy in virtual confinement, sipping elfroot tea and doing needlepoint with her ladies. I'm aware of the possibility that I might miscarry and I take care not to jostle myself around too much when I'm out practicing with sword and shield, but it can't be healthy to spend all day in bed, a prisoner in the very palace where they call me queen. Besides, I have no patience or skill for handicrafts and people have already sent the baby so many sets of knitted booties that the dear child would have to be a centipede to wear them all. Mind you, I am disappointed that I haven't yet received a pair of enchanted booties from Wynne – what a dreadful imaginary grandmother she is!

In any case, once all the hoopla surrounding gift-giving and congratulations has died down, I think I'll ask a servant to sneak over to the Chantry and offer them the baby items we don't require. The Sisters there will be able to distribute them to people who can actually get some use out of them. I don't think the baby will miss a ruffled bonnet or a blue blanket with silly pom-poms, and as long as Bann Ceorlic doesn't spot said blanket wrapped around a pauper, I think it will be a very practical arrangement.

Of course, there are some folk who it is very difficult to feel charitable towards, usually the ones I come in most direct contact with, for people are often much more pleasant in the abstract. This brings me to the troublesome topic of Goldanna. She's been petitioning to speak with me for a few weeks now and I have agreed to give her a brief audience, but I don't expect she'll like what I have to say to her.

When she does come storming in, accompanied by a pair of guards, I'm shocked at the transformation in her appearance. It certainly would not do to have Alistair's half-sister roaming the city in rags, but she has taken to wearing satin shoes imported from Orlais and her gown is more expensive than the one I'm wearing. I can't see how she can take in laundry wearing such ostentatious attire, but then I guess she's decided to give up cleaning other people's clothes and is savouring her new vocation as full-time royal relative, money grubber and parasite. I grit my teeth together, dismiss the guards and prepare myself for another lovely visit with my sister-in-law, ghastly shrew that she is.

We get off on the wrong foot almost immediately. Goldanna forgets to curtsey and scowls at me as if I'm the fishmonger's wife and she's caught me cheating the weights. I suppose I should reprimand her for this, but I hate scolding people for their impertinences. It's much more dignified, I believe, to remain unperturbed and teach them an object lesson in respect than to waste words haranguing them.

"It's mighty fine of you to finally find the time to see me," she says. "You're married to my brother, you'd think I might get a bit of consideration, but I suppose no one cares a copper for the poor relations."

"And a good day to you, too, Goldanna. That's a lovely dress. Orlesian-make?"

"Just something I got on the cheap," she replies, fidgeting with the expensive brocade. "Don't know why it concerns you."

"Well, it's just nice to know that the money Alistair gave you is going to those five hungry children of yours," I say, sweet as sugar. "I take being an auntie very seriously, you know, especially since your brother and I will be having a child of our own soon."

"I don't expect either of you know the first thing about raising children or what them kids cost."

"No, we're terribly inexperienced, it's true. Perhaps you'd like to help with the babysitting?"

She folds her arms across her chest. "With five of mine own? Don't be daft."

It's unfortunate that she chooses to spend most of her time frowning, because she has rather a pretty face. She has the potential to be an attractive person, if one ignores her obvious vulgarity and that grating voice. With elocution lessons and some polishing, perhaps I shall manage to get her married off to some old, rich merchant and then we will all be as happy as the day is long.

"It's such a pleasure to speak with you, Goldanna. You're always so very obliging. Now what did you wish to speak to me about?"

"I want to know where you been hiding my allowance. I was supposed to get 15 sovereigns at the first of the month and I haven't seen a crooked penny."

I smile. "Yes, I'm aware of that."

"And what do you plan to do about it?" Goldanna demands. "You think that because my brother goes out of town, you can just steal all my money away?"

"Steal? Goldanna, you grieve me in thinking such dishonour. The money has simply been re-appropriated."

She looks flummoxed. "What?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll try to use smaller words," I say. "There have been some recent amendments – ahem, changes - to the budget. With all the rebuilding we've been doing here in Denerim, I'm afraid that we can no longer afford to give money to just anyone who comes looking for a handout."

"You can't do this! I'm not just anyone. I'm Alistair's sister and he won't stand for it!"

"You're his sister, are you? That's funny."

Goldanna's cheeks flush orange-red with irritation. "And what's so funny about it, I might ask?"

"Well, you see, I've never had a sister, just a big oaf of a brother, but I was always under the impression that sisters cared about their siblings, that they spent time getting to know them..."

"I don't got any time for that. I got mouths to feed."

"And lovely dresses to buy. It's a shame that you don't have time to be Alistair's sister," I say. "But since you're too busy for that duty, I wouldn't dream of troubling you to go all the way to the treasury to collect Alistair's money every month. That would be too much a hardship."

"But the children –"

"Yes, I do feel sorry for my nephews and nieces," I interject. "However, I don't think it would be fair to let them grow up with the impression that all one has to do is beg and money will drop from the heavens. But perhaps we can come to a compromise?"

"What is there to talk about? You're stealing from your husband's own sister and her little children. You're a damned witch and the Maker will punish you."

This makes me chuckle. It's amusing to be called a witch, perhaps because I have known quite a few witches in my day and I am most certainly not one of them. Although it might be interesting to wield some of those abilities...there are some people out there who would make very nice toads, I think.

"Oh, a witch, am I?" I take a slow breath and gather up my thoughts. "Goldanna, family isn't just in the blood. If you want to be treated as his sister, with all the delightful fringe benefits, then from now on, you will start behaving as a sister should. Or this wicked witch will wave her magic staff and make your precious allowance disappear."

"Fine," she snaps. "What do you want?"

"I want you to be a kind, supportive sister and a half-way decent human being. But let's start slow, shall we? For now, you shall arrange to send your children to the Chantry school. Also, I'd like it very much if you wrote Alistair a friendly letter each month."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

She looks down at her satin shoes and I feel ashamed of myself for not thinking of it earlier. She's the daughter of a serving girl – no one would have taught her to read.

"If you're unable to write, you can dictate the letter to one of my secretaries."

This seems to reassure her a bit. "And if I do that, I get my money?"

"You'll receive 5 sovereigns a month in support for our dear nieces and nephews. My people will watching to see that the money is spent wisely and for their benefit."

"That's highway robbery!"

"Oh, Goldanna, I should hope you never meet any highwaymen. They don't often give people money for doing practically nothing."

Goldanna mutters something under her breath, no doubt something appropriately vile.

"Five sovereigns," I say. "Take it or leave it."

"Alright. Better something than nothing."

"Lovely! I'll ask my secretary Derrick to work with you in transcribing the first letter for Alistair."

"Don't know what I've got to say to him."

"Oh, it hardly matters," I say. "Although I think it might be nice if you told him a little something about your mother."

Goldanna frowns. "My mother? What about her?"

"You might describe what she was like, for starters. Perhaps some good memories you have of her."

She gapes at me and I begin to wonder if she has any good memories at all. Perhaps it's best she doesn't write about her mother after all.

"But really, it's none of my business," I add. "You're quite welcome to prattle on about whatever inane subject you wish. He'll be happy simply to hear from you, I expect. "

Goldanna gives a derisive snort. "You know, if you want me to like you all, this isn't the right way of going about it."

"I don't care a fig whether you like me or loathe me. But if we're to spend good coin supporting you, then I expect to get some return on my investment. It's just sensible business."

"I'll do it," she says. "Just make sure I get the money and we have a deal."

She seems about ready to make good her escape, but I'm not prepared to release her yet. "Oh, and Goldanna?"

"What?"

"I do hope that you won't try to say anything nasty about me in your letter. That wouldn't be a very sporting thing to do."

"So now you're going to threaten me too?" she says. "Crown on your head or no, you got some gall."

"Indeed, I do, but that wasn't a threat," I tell her. "I simply want to warn you that my secretary won't transcribe anything unflattering about me."

Goldanna responds with a most ladylike snort. "I should have expected that."

"In fact, I think I'll tell Derrick that if he hears you saying nasty, bitter, negative things on any subject, then he is to write the exact opposite down on the page," I say blithely. "So, just for example, if you were to complain about what a conniving, tight-fisted bitch I am, then the letter would involve you rhapsodizing about my sweetness, my honest nature and my true generosity of spirit. Understood?"

"I understand what you're about," Goldanna sneers. "Of course, when Alistair gets back, things will -"

I interrupt her by summoning the guards back in. "Ah, I've so enjoyed our little chat, but I fear that I'm running short on time now. Fare thee well, dearest Goldanna."

She leaves in a huff and as I watch her go, I find it difficult not to snicker. I'd been biting my tongue and waiting to give this little performance for a long, long time. There are moments in this life when it is wonderfully satisfying to be unscrupulous and a queen.


	7. A Perfect Circle

**Alistair**

My official farewell at Court was painful, but an odd, subdued pain, like getting bludgeoned by a pillow full of rocks.

My misgivings, those I felt then and those I feel now, are not entirely related to the good of Ferelden. During my absence, Elendra will administer state affairs, ably assisted by Arl Eamon, and I imagine they will do an excellent job, much better than I would do on my own, should they ever both decide to hightail it off to Anderfels on a lark. Ferelden is in good hands.

In fact, I get the feeling my wife will function quite well without me and that's where much of the trouble lies. On the battlefield, we had a partnership and we could rely on one another through any trial. In the throne room, Elendra is clever, always six chess moves ahead of me. The difficulties I face in understanding statecraft or in learning lessons that every legitimate nobleman's child over the age of fourteen already knows as second-nature...well, I can only expect that such incompetence must breed contempt. And contempt - that breeds something else, perhaps.

That sunny morning, as the carriage pulled away from the palace gates, I gazed out the screened window at Elendra, who stood slightly aloof from her ladies, looking determined and beautiful, a formidable woman and every inch a queen. I watched my wife, searching for some sign of sorrow or regret, some indication that she might miss me when I'm gone. I kept watching, dauntlessly, hopelessly, until she and the Palace receded into the distance and the wheels of the carriage began rattling along the cobblestone streets of Denerim. I never anticipated that loving someone would leave me feeling bruised all over.

I've decided to travel an overland route to Jader, Riordan's former home and the easiest place to cross the Waking Sea to Nevarra. My official reason for taking this route is to reduce the amount of time I spend aboard a ship, since putting a king on a boat has made Fereldans a bit antsy ever since my father was lost at sea. It was a particularly bad way for a king to die, I think. There was no resolution to it at all, no body for a state funeral, and I think we all secretly still hold out hope that Maric might magically reappear one day, as would befit a king and a person of legend, even though it's clear by now that he's gone. While I have no intention of being washed off to a desert island or stolen away by mermaids into the briny deep, I can understand why the good people of Ferelden might wish keep their monarchs planted on solid ground as much as possible.

Another more personal reason for choosing this path is that it gives me an excuse to stop by Lake Calenhad and visit old friends. Oghren and Felsi have taken up residence over at The Spoiled Princess, so I plan to spend an hour or two catching up with them, but my primary concern is Wynne, who recently returned to the Circle Tower.

Elendra was pleased to hear that Wynne was back in Ferelden, but the news made me anxious. The truth is, I don't think she would go back to the Tower if she was in good health. She doesn't like to be cooped up in one place, not if she has a choice in the matter. I pray that I'm wrong, but if I'm right, I'd like to be able to see her before...anything should happen. I've been parting ways with a lot of important people as of late and at least once, I'd like to do a proper job of saying goodbye.

I arrive at The Spoiled Princess incognito or so I believe, until I casually stroll into the place and see copies of the royal portraits mounted on the wall, right above the ale taps. And then everyone huddled around the bar looks up from the drinks they'd been drowning their sorrows in and gapes at me.

I've never been fond of that particular portrait. I've always been of the opinion that the artist made me look a bit like a horse - a well-mannered, regal sort of horse, maybe – but I still appear as if I might whiny, rear up on my hind-legs and gallop away in search of a clover field or a nice lump of sugar. Unfortunately, judging from the reactions of The Spoiled Princess' esteemed clientele, this portrait may actually be a good likeness.

I decide to grin and bear it, although I get the feeling I may be blushing. It's always harder to be dignified when one is blushing. "Good day, everyone. Sorry to interrupt, but I don't suppose I might find Oghren on the premises?"

Felsi's eyes grow so wide, they're almost perfect circles.

"Oghren!" she hisses. "Oghren, get out here now!"

"What?"

The dwarf sounds drunk, but frankly, I think I'd be a little disturbed if he were stone-cold sober. I'm sure that there are some people who approach running a tavern as a business, but for Oghren, it's much more of a lifestyle choice.

"You've got a guest, you nughumper!" Felsi barks back at him.

Oghren comes stomping out of the backroom, or at least I presume that it's Oghren, although his short barrel of a body is almost entirely obscured by the comparatively tall barrel of ale he's hefting around. "What the sod are you talking about, woman?"

"Put down the barrel, you dimwit and you'll see what I'm talking about."

Oghren drops the barrel on the floor. "What?"

I lean against the bar and try to look casual. This is harder to do than one might imagine, as all but the most devoted drunks on the premises have stopped drinking and are now occupied in comparing my face to the dreadful horse-face portrait on the wall. "You're doing some good business here."

The dwarf grins, giving a raspy chuckle. "By the Stone, if it isn't the bloody King of Ferelden come walkin' out among the common folks!"

Discretion was never Oghren's strong suit. He's much better at holding his liquor than holding his tongue.

"Yes, that would be me. Just walking around. Trying to avoid attention," I reply. "Mission accomplished, I see."

"So, what are you doing out here, in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere?" Oghren says. "That sweet li'l wifey of yours kick your arse off the throne already?"

He's joking, of course, but it hits a little closer to home than I'd like. "I'm travelling, actually, and I thought I might stop by and say hello. Figured I'd see if you'd drunk yourself out of business yet."

Oghren gives his beer-gut an affectionate pat. "Nope, not yet! Not yet, old friend."

It's unclear whether the 'old friend' he's referring to is me or his stomach. If I were a gambling man, I'd put my sovereigns on it being the latter.

"Oh, believe me, he's working on it! The place will dry up in a week if we don't receive a new shipment soon," Felsi mutters, pouring a perfect pitcher of ale with her brawny arm. She slings the drink down the bar in the direction of a customer, wearing a ferocious look on her round, child-like face. I make a mental note not to cross her.

I spend a shameful amount of time drinking with Oghren and end up having to take rooms in the tavern for the night. I don't usually get myself so thoroughly inebriated and this is a good thing, for, as it turns out, I'm a maudlin drunk, one who likes to laugh at funny reminiscences and then crawl back to my room to weep over them. At some point in my intoxicated escapades, I remove Elendra's portrait from the tavern wall and abscond with it to my room. I find it lying on the bed the next morning, undamaged, thankfully, except for a few of my fingerprints smeared into the blue background.

When I see Felsi next, she's gotten over any sense of awe or reverence that might go with my royal title. She rolls her eyes at my rather dishevelled appearance and sets a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me. "Just as bad as that mosslicker Oghren, I see. No wonder you two got along. Give my condolences to your wife. She had good sense in kicking you out."

I bite into the toast. After the night I've had, it's buttery bliss. "Thanks."

"Thanks?"

"For the food. Not the insults. Although I'm sure they're mostly deserved after the state I got myself into last evening."

"Hm," She contemplates this for a second and goes back to washing a dirty ale mug. "Weird to see manners from one of Oghren's friends."

I manage to say my goodbyes and escape the confines of the Princess before Oghren meets the full brunt of Felsi's displeasure. It's strange, but I think they might actually be happy in their dysfunctional dwarven way, despite all evidence to the contrary. Oghren speaks about Felsi with unusual affection, as long as she's not within earshot, and despite her fury, she made him a very good breakfast and didn't skimp on the lichen bread and mouldy cheese, Orzammar favourites that I didn't have the intestinal fortitude to sample.

I try to pay the ferryman Kester a few silvers to take me across the lake to the Circle Tower but he recognizes me straight off, despite my commoner's garb, and says that he won't take a toll from the king. He's a nice old fellow and while he mans the oars, he tells me tales about his grandson, which are not strictly entertaining in the traditional sense but gain much charm from his obvious love of the subject matter. Upon reaching the docks at the base of the Tower, I leave my fare on the seat and make my escape before Kester can refuse the coin.

As I near the Tower, I notice a templar standing outside the entrance, which has never been standard procedure and is, well, decidedly odd. After all, one isn't likely to encounter many mages wandering around the front yard, cutting the lawn and trimming the hedges. Maleficarum don't usually line up at the Circle Tower begging for admittance.

I can see just a glimpse of the templar's eyes through the slats of his visor. When he greets me, his voice reverberates under the armour, a strange hollow sound. "Good day, Your Majesty."

And that seals it - I really need to work on this disguise.

"Hello. I was hoping to gain entrance to the tower."

The templar steps in front of me, as if he intends to bar my way. "I don't think you should go in there."

"Why? The Tower is still secure, I hope?"

"It's never been secure. It's full of mages, abominations waiting to happen. You and your friends, you saw what happened. It could happen again in the blink of an eye. And wouldn't they just love to possess a king! Just think of the power they could wield."

I realize where I've heard that voice before.

"You're the templar we rescued. Um, Killen? Kellen?"

The templar removes his visor, revealing an anxious face topped by close-cropped auburn hair. "Cullen," he replies.

"Aha! Yes, that's it. Sorry. I'm trying to get better with names."

The man gazes at me with his haunted-looking eyes and I instantly regret trying to make light of my absentmindedness.

"In any case, I'm glad to see you're doing a bit better," I add.

Cullen doesn't look happy, not by any stretch of the imagination, but the last time I saw him, he was sleep-deprived, dehydrated, half-starved and half-mad from a fortnight locked in the Tower with only demons, abominations and blood mages to keep him company. Most things are an improvement from that.

"Yes. Better," Cullen says. "I suppose you could say that. I know what I'm about, anyway, and I've no intention of letting you into a tower full of mages."

"I've got a meeting scheduled with Knight-Commander Greagoir," I fib. "I'm sure I'll be perfectly safe, if I'm just in the Grand Hall speaking with him."

"I don't know," Cullen says darkly. "I wouldn't trust even him completely. He and Irving are a bit too...friendly."

"I was trained as a templar, you know. If I saw something suspicious going on, I wouldn't stand for it."

"You're only going to see Greagoir, right?"

"Sure. Greagoir and I go way back. We're the best of chums."

Cullen hesitates, but I can see that he's relenting. "Alright, then. Just...stay safe up there." He unlocks the door and lets me pass into the Grand Hall.

I make it six steps into the place when my new best pal Greagoir intercepts me with a studied bow. He's looking slightly less haggard and world-weary than the last time I saw him, but the poor man could still really use a vacation. Preferably somewhere warm, sunny and free of maleficarum.

"Your Majesty, this is a surprise." From the exasperated expression on his face, I can tell he's already envisioning the paperwork he's going to have to fill out for the Chantry. "We usually prefer to keep track of our visitors in advance."

"Yes, I got that impression when I arrived at the door. I had to do quite a bit of convincing just to get Cullen to let me in to see you."

Greagoir heaves a despairing sigh. "Oh, Maker...He's at it again, is he? I busted him down to door duty, far, far away from the mages. I thought that he might be of some use down there, but now he just spends all his time scaring the couriers away."

"He saw some horrible things when Uldred took over. It only seems natural that he'd suffer some trauma."

"Such a waste of potential. I had my eye on that Cullen as an up-and-comer. Exemplary technique as a swordfighter and he used to be able to play nice with the mages. It figures he'd lose his mind and I'd get stuck babysitting."

"Can't something be done to help him?"

"What's to be done? You think the Revered Mother cares if half of my soldiers go barmy from poor working conditions? She probably prefers them that way. Makes them more fervent," Greagoir says. "But there's no need to trouble yourself with Chantry business. What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping to visit with Senior Enchanter Wynne. I heard that she was here."

Greagoir's frown digs a little deeper into his weathered face. "Oh. Well, yes. I think that can be arranged for you."

This worries me. Greagoir only becomes this compliant and obliging when the situation is dire.

Greagoir arranges for me to enter the mages' quarters with an escort of two templars, although with my history, I think I'm more likely to be protecting them than the other way around. Nevertheless, the precaution reassures the Knight-Commander that all is well and I'm willing to do whatever is necessary to make his nerve-wracking duties a bit easier. We wind our way along circular corridors interspersed with marble staircases, passing under white arches that give the place the hushed solemnity. The architecture of the Tower has a certain stark elegance, but it's hard to imagine spending one's life practising magic in these chilly, lightless rooms. Actually, I'm surprised that people can walk around these spiral halls all day without getting dizzy.

I try to make some idle conversation with the guards en route, but it's difficult to talk to even the friendliest souls when their faces are masked beneath those ominous visors. That's forethought on the part of the Chantry, a psychological game. They want to make the templars appear as cold, sharp and menacing as unsheathed swords. They want mages to see their guards as the Maker's weapons.

When I knock on the door of Wynne's room, it's a young woman who answers. She has a familiar face, but I can't put a name to it for the life of me.

"Hello," she says. "You're one of the Grey Wardens who helped save the Tower."

"Yes. I was hoping to see Wynne, if I might."

"You may, of course, but..."

"She's ill, isn't she?"

The young mage nods. "I'm afraid so."

"I see. Would it be better for me to leave a message? Perhaps come back another day?"

"My goodness, stop tiptoeing about and come in already!" Wynne calls from behind the door. "I'm still quite capable of surviving a friendly conversation, I assure you."

I step past the girl into the darkened bedroom. Wynne is laying in bed, propped up on two pillows, a blue healing spell encircling her wizened body in gentle blue light. She looks amused and, if she weren't such a nice, grandmotherly sort of person, I might get the distinct impression she was smirking at me.

"It's great to see you again, Wynne. I missed seeing that cat-that-ate-the-canary expression."

She chuckles. "I'm just glad you didn't say 'pigeon'."

"After your time on road with Shale, I expect you've had more than enough of pigeons."

"Oh, well, Shale has surprisingly varied interests, you know. For example, she has wonderful taste in shoes."

"You and Shale went shoe-shopping in Tevinter?"

Wynne shakes her head regretfully. "I didn't get so far as Tevinter, I'm afraid. But we were in Orlais for a week or two, at Val Royaux."

"Was it everything Leliana said it would be?"

"She took a little artistic license, as you might imagine a bard would do, but it is a very lovely place," she replies. "The Grand Cathedral is just glorious. I'm glad I had the chance to see it."

I pull a chair over to the side of her bed and take a seat. Up close, the effects of Wynne's illness are more evident. She looks fragile, moth-like, and her skin appears papery-thin and almost translucent, shot with blue veins underneath.

"How are you doing?" I ask her. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes, actually there is something."

"And what, pray tell, is that something?"

Wynne smiles. "You can pour me some more tea. I seem to have run out."

I pick up the tea kettle on the side table. I pour out one cup for her and track down a fresh one for me. "And here I was ready to go fetch you the Urn of Sacred Ashes. I don't suppose you take sacred ashes in your tea, do you?"

"Dear Maker, no!" Wynne says, snapping up her tea. "I don't imagine the blessed Andraste would take kindly to such disrespect either."

I grin, enjoying her outrage. "Quite right. I'll refrain from using holy relics to flavour my beverages from now on."

"My, but it gives me great comfort to think that you'll be running Ferelden with temperance and virtue long after I'm gone," she says. "In any case, how are you finding the duties of kingship?"

"Oh, Wynne, must we talk about this? I came here to have a nice visit with you. Drink some tea. Discuss Orlais and shoes and how weird it is that Shale turned out to be a lady. We're not allowed to talk about anything responsible. I won't have you getting yourself all agitated."

Wynne gets very frown-y and disapproving and for a second, I get the notion she may put down the teacup and clobber me over the head with her change-purse. "Don't you take that impertinent tone with me, Alistair Theirin. We are most certainly going to talk about responsibility!"

"Oh, very well, if we must. What sort of responsible thing do you wish to talk about?"

"Well, first of all, I do hope you aren't neglecting your duties in coming here. I specifically told them not to bother you about me being sick. You have enough to think about."

"I figured it out for myself," I reply. "In any case, Elendra has been kind enough to stand in my place while I'm away. I'm travelling on Grey Wardens business."

"Hmm. Indeed. And you believe that's a good plan?"

"Well, not a perfect plan, but in certain situations, one has to make compromises..."

"Heavens, but you're starting to sound an awful lot like Elendra."

"Smarter, you mean?"

"Oh, I don't think you've ever suffered for lack of intelligence. You certainly have a smart mouth," Wynne says. "I suppose I just don't want you falling into that trap where the ends justify the means..."

I think of that dreadful dark ritual business – shameful stuff, definitely, and I feel apprehensive about the potential consequences - but I've certainly enjoyed being alive to see the archdemon dead. "Sometimes the ends do justify the means."

"And who's convinced you of that?"

"Life has convinced me of that."

"Really, now?" Wynne raises a scanty white eyebrow. "Elendra is a lovely girl and certainly very...accomplished, but I don't always approve of some of her methods."

"This isn't a conversation I want to have with you, Wynne. Let's talk about something else."

"I'm not trying to disparage her. She has many admirable qualities and I believe the two of you have the making of a good team," Wynne replies. "I simply think that she could benefit from your conscientiousness and sense of fair play."

I swirl my tea around in my cup and try not to look too bemused by this. Wynne has no idea how dirty Denerim politics can get and I'm not about to strip away all her visions of patriotism, service and civic virtue. "I don't know about that, but I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"Oh, I've tried to steer Elendra towards certain moral questions and she's a very bright pupil, always quick with the right answer, but I fear all my advice goes in one ear and out the other."

If it goes in one ear at all. Elendra is fond of Wynne, but tends to think of her advice as the charmingly quaint notions of a sheltered Circle mage, a backward philosophy with only the faintest connections to reality. She once admitted to me that whenever she got stuck on the receiving end of a particularly long-winded lecture, she'd simply nod her head and imagine Wynne's voice as the soothing sound of waves lapping against the shore.

"And you think I'm such a moral paragon?" I say. "I think you overestimate me."

"I think you underestimate yourself, dear," Wynne replies. "You're much more capable than you realize. You have a lot to contribute too. I think that sometimes you tend to lose faith in yourself, but you've accomplished a great deal and you will do so much more, if you only believe in the possibilities."

I've been trying not to get upset because I know that the last thing Wynne wants is me boohooing all over the place, clumsy oaf that I am, but now I can feel tears welling up at the corners of my eyes. It's just that Wynne has always been so good to me, so encouraging, even when I don't entirely agree with her. I don't like to see her confined to a sickbed and locked up in this dismal tower. I want to see her happy, comfortable and at peace. I want to make her proud.

"I shall try to live up to your good opinion of me," I tell her. "You've always been a wonderful mentor, Wynne. I want you to know that I'm grateful to have you in my life."

She clasps my hand. "It's been a good life. I'm very thankful to have had such kind friends."

I sniff back my weepiness and smile at her. "You don't want me to spring you out of this place, do you? We can go down to The Spoiled Princess. I know how much you like it down there."

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm here because I want to be. This is a good way to close out the circle of my life," she replies. "Besides, I hate that foul bar."

I give her the scrolls I bought for her in Denerim and we chat about everyday things like the books she's been reading and the best vintages of Highever ice wine. Wynne's always had a spark in her and in conversation, she hasn't lost her usual vim and vinegar, but with the illness, she seems to tire easily. It doesn't shock or offend me when she drowses off to sleep in the middle of a short pause in the conversation.

She'd be displeased with herself, embarrassed to be caught snoozing before company, but it looks as if she could use the rest and I'm not about to disturb her. I slurp down the last drops of my tea, put the cup down on the side table and tuck the blanket up around Wynne's throat so that she doesn't catch a chill.

"Goodbye, Wynne," I whisper. "Take care of yourself."

I make a point of treading softly as I go, of closing the door gently, so as not to wake her. After another dizzying trek back through the Tower, I bid farewell to my templar guards and Greagoir and head out of the hall. I'm feeling choked up after my talk with Wynne and I want to taste some fresh air again, to let the lake breeze buffet my face.

As I step out of the Tower, Cullen accosts me, his brow crinkled in a quizzical expression that I have sometimes seen on Elendra's Mabari when he is hungry. In this case, I expect that the poor templar is looking for information rather than succulent pieces of steak, but you never do know with fighters, even holy ones.

Cullen eyes me suspiciously and I suspect that this is the sort of expression I often fixed on Morrigan when she was prowling about looking particularly wicked and witchy.

"That was a very long conversation with the Knight-Commander, your Majesty."

"I went into the Tower, Cullen. And before you say anything, I'm not possessed by any manner of demon."

Cullen gets flustered at this and starts to redden, which immediately renders me more sympathetic to his plight. I know the problems posed by a complexion prone to colouring in awkward situations all too well.

"My apologies. I was merely taking precautions, Sire. Performing due diligence."

I nod. "I understand you have your duties, but you've become a bit...over-zealous, don't you think?"

"Perhaps, yes. That may be true. This place – it does things to you. It starts to make you wonder who is an enemy and who is a friend. People you knew and trusted... they could change in a split second."

I get an idea, one that could be the making of a man or his undoing, but, in Andraste's name, it's an option and from the looks of things, Cullen doesn't have too many of those to choose from.

"Look, I can see that you aren't happy here and Greagoir says you have skill with a sword..."

"I am a capable fighter, Sire."

"How badly do you want to be out of this Tower and away from the templars? Because I can offer you an escape route, but it's going to come at a premium."

"What sort of premium?" After asking this question, Cullen glares at me as if I'm about to say 'We must sacrifice many sheep and virgins and perform BLOOD MAGIC!' and transform into a lascivious female demon with little in the way of clothes or inhibitions.

"I'm asking you if you want to join the Grey Wardens. It's the greatest duty one can undertake, but the price may be your life."

Cullen gives a sigh of relief, something I have not often observed from men who are faced with the prospect of death. "Some price. I'd give my life gladly to serve a greater good."

"And you're certain of this?" I ask him. "The Grey Wardens need warriors like you to fight the darkspawn hordes. It's an evil greater than anything generated by any one mage or abomination and you could do a lot of good. But once you commit to it, know that there's no going back."

The templar bows his head and his voice takes on the ringing tone and clear diction of a soldier speaking to his commanding officer. "This is an unlooked-for honour. I have only wished to fight evil in the Maker's name and if I can do that as a Grey Warden, then I shall gladly join ranks."

His words are a reminder of the formality that is bred into templars, the unquestioning sense of duty that the Chantry drills into you until you are willing and able to put all maleficars to the sword, no matter how young they are or how affecting their pleas become. It's a sacrifice for the greater good, they say, sacrificing one's human sense of mercy to a terrible divine justice, becoming less a person and more a tool of the Maker, but I'll admit that it scared me. I didn't want to yield to something so large and impersonal, something that could crush a person under the weight of ideology.

"You can fight in the name of whatever or whomever you please. The only rule is that you kill the darkspawn, that you do whatever it takes to stop them and believe me, they are evil in its purest form."

"Then provided I am allowed to leave the templars, I accept your offer, without reservation," Cullen says. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Good. I'll go talk to Greagoir on your behalf. Pack light. We'll be travelling on to Weisshaupt for your Joining Ceremony," I answer, pushing back through the door to the Tower. "Oh, and please stop calling me 'Your Majesty'. 'Alistair' will do just fine."


	8. A Murder of Crows

**Zevran **

Upon my return to the nest of the Crows, there is a great cackling and cawing and flapping of wings as the other murderous birds rearrange themselves on their perches, watching me with their little black bead eyes. They do not assail me directly, no, they are not so foolish, but they vie amongst themselves for position and my rise has not passed unnoticed. There are more than a few of my dear Crows who are guilty of envy and more than a few, I think, who would like to scratch me with their talons and peck me with their sharp beaks 'til I am bloody. I have heard tell of honour amongst thieves, but I know from experience that there is little in the way of constancy amongst assassins. We possess other virtues, of course, but we must keep our loyalties...flexible.

I have achieved the rank of Master, a promotion long overdue, and I now number among the select few who sit upon the Council of Crows and may take rooms within the Palazzo dei Corvi. The palazzo rests on the outskirts of Antiva City, but once you cross the black wrought-iron gates and enter upon its sprawling grounds, you will discover that it is a city in its own right and a fortress, too, if need be. I am here at the behest of Ferelden's spy network and these past few months, I have been attacking this fortress from within.

I took my first stroll through the grand hall of the palazzo when I was but an apprentice, little more than a skinny adolescent cutthroat with a wicked blade and bold, bragging tongue. Of course, most of my time then was spent in much less lavish quarters, wood bunkers little better than sheds, where one might take an evening's amusement in watching the fleas dance on the mattresses. The instructors would sometimes herd us out into the palazzo courtyard to conduct training exercises, games that usually stained the sand with blood. As a child, I would look up at the palazzo in wonderment, marvelling at its fluted columns, its gracious high windows accented with marble flourishes as white and graceful as the inside of a lady's wrist. Now I walk these corridors and I look out those same lovely windows but I do not enjoy the view.

It is most unfortunate, but I begin to savour the sweet tang of vengeance. That is a dangerous thing for a fellow in my precarious position, a prodigal son newly returned to the Crows and the youngest among the masters. Recently, I have caught myself entertaining ideas about what I will do when I take over Crow operations, what an utter delight it will be to kick up my feet on the polished mahogany desk in the main study and arrange for certain necessary changes, a bit of organizational restructuring, if you will. This behaviour shows some lack of professionalism on my part, of course, for as they say in Ferelden, one should not count the chickens before they are hatched (My, but I do love those quaint Fereldan proverbs!). I believe that one is quite apt, for it is unwise for me to count the dead while they still draw breath and I will have to step over quite a few corpses before I am crowned King of Crows.

When I am not occupied with my gleeful delusions of grandeur, I act as an agent of Ferelden in the negotiation of a new Antivan trade agreement. You see, there are some contracts regarding the export of lyrium that cannot be signed without spilling a certain amount of red ink. Indeed, I have received word from Sapphire that my latest mark will be none other than the wicked old Prince of Parmia, Barthelomeo Rienza, notorious for his excellent taste in art and terrible taste in friends. They say that pregnancy has a way of calming the storm in a woman's heart and bringing forth her maternal nature, but my darling EIendra is as pragmatic as ever, putting pen to death warrants while she knits baby booties, and she seems to take special joy in presenting me with new challenges.

Unfortunately, I suspect that I will need aid in this latest venture, for it would appear that the good Prince of Parmia favours only the fair sex. I am loath to confess it, but it seems that even a certain comely but decidedly male elf, in spite of all his skill and bountiful charms, will not be tempting enough to lure the ancient gentleman away from his cohort of guards. This is why I may need to involve a young protégée I have been teaching, a deadly elven damsel named Nerissa whose loveliness and cunning make her an ideal candidate to serve as lethal bait.

I meet with her here in the palazzo's great hall, under glittering chandeliers and gilded ceilings covered in frescos of legendary murders. She looks quite toothsome in a crimson gown, her pale breasts cupped beneath a tight bodice and a cascade of red-gold hair sliding down her back in gentle waves.

"You look most radiant this morning," I tell her. "Have you just disposed of a wayward noble, perhaps? Or have you been partaking in other pleasures?"

She smiles at my flattery. "Imagine whatever wickedness you please, Master Zevran. Shall we walk as we plot?"

"Yes, I always enjoy a little exercise to go along with my conspiring."

I escort her down the hall and under the high-vaunted archways that lead into the palazzo's galleries. Here, portraits of historical personages and our aristocratic 'benefactors' hang in ornate frames, sneering at any who should care to look upon them. As we converse, I examine Nerissa carefully, evaluating her responses. She is capable enough, I think, for the job I would give her, but I doubt she will last long as a Crow. Underneath the careless mien we Crows cultivate from the cradle, there is something fervent and eager about her, something that is seeking and will never find what is searching for. It is sad and I have seen it before. She has the eyes of a starved child.

I believe that she will perform well in the task I propose, that she will kill very beautifully for a while, but I have been lucky in this short, cruel life and I know that most young Crows do not share my good fortune. Whatever I bear in place of a heart, it will not break for her or for anyone still living, but I find it wearisome to witness the deaths of the young, the poor and the lovely. I'd much rather be cavorting about, facilitating the demises of the old, the obscenely rich and the gouty – it pays good coin and it's better for the soul.

"Who are they?" Nerissa asks, pointing to a pair of portraits hung in a murky corner.

"Why, you do not recognize Artemisia Forzia, the Queen of Swords?"

She gives a charming smile, her teeth showing like pearls. "Not in the least."

"But surely you know of the Red Prince, the man who commissioned her assassination?"

"Who?"

Young people these days. They are so very resistant to culture, as if possessing the benefits of an education might dull their swords, temper their poisons or mar their pretty faces. One might think that they never had the chance to steal books from the learned people they assassinated. I myself once pilfered a very nice set of encyclopaedias from a target's library and so I know most everything about the world. Well, with the notable exception of things beginning with the letter 'T', for some filthy wretch filched that volume out from out of my room.

"Come, I will tell you the grisly tale," I tell her. "I should not like to see you miss out on a shining moment in the history of our fine Crows, a pivotal achievement in assassination that defined an entire age."

I lead her over to the two portraits, one of a solemn young woman, black-haired and pallid of skin, and the other of a swarthy man of middle years, haughty in his plumed hat and red velvet breeches.

"The young woman who you see before you is the Queen of Swords, a pious soul who spent all her days on her knees praying in the Chantry and all her nights avoiding sin with such skill, that her old goat of a husband went quite mad."

"Mad? What did he do?"

"Oh, for several years, he was under the impression that he was an elf. He even went so far as to clip the tips of his ears into points. He'd rage at his courtiers, calling them 'shem' and telling them that they stole his homeland."

"How peculiar."

"Indeed. Now, considering her prudishness and fanatical piety, it should not come as much surprise that our dear Lady of the Swords looked upon the Crows as a tumour, one that should be cut from Antiva's body politic."

I point at the painting of the Red Prince beside her. "This wicked, degenerate creature was the great patron of the Crows at the time and he was most displeased at the Queen of Swords' righteous crusade to wipe out our organization. And, my dear Nerissa, I believe you are well aware what Crows do to resolve problems."

She smiles. "We don't simply negotiate?"

I remove a set of silverite throwing daggers from the belt at my hips. "The Red Prince hired the greatest assassin of his age, a man known only as The Maker's Hand, to claim retribution. "

Showing her the throwing daggers, I pause in my tale. "Now I will ask you to use your imagination. Pretend that these are not little daggers, but swords nearly an arm's breadth long."

I fling the first dagger into the portrait and it hits the painted woman in the throat. "That is where the first sword went. There were four, each representing a noble house of Crows. The second sword entered a little lower...."

I aim my next dagger at the black satin bodice of the woman's gown, right above the heart, and let it fly. "Right about there. It is said that The Maker's Hand twisted that one in so deep that the sword went almost all the way through the bed."

I am about to throw my third dagger to demonstrate how a sword pierced the gap between the queen's ribs, when a silken voice interrupts my lesson. "And just what precisely do you think you're doing, Arainai? This is the Palazzo dei Corvi, not some grimy brothel room."

I adjust my aim, targeting the portrait of the Red Prince. My dagger hits the villain right between his heavy-lidded eyes.

"That is not historically accurate," I inform Nerissa and she gives a nervous giggle.

"Still much enamoured with folly, I see," Master Ferdinand says, his arms crossed over his chest. "Master or no, you should watch yourself. No Crow takes kindly to seeing works of art desecrated."

I feign confusion. "Art? Where? I simply saw nasty stains on two pieces of perfectly serviceable canvas. I was hoping to clean up the mess."

Master Ferdinand frowns and I am glad to have angered him. You see, the so-called artist was his great-grandfather, a mediocre court painter who painted people as if they had absurdly lengthy torsos and a greenish tint to their complexions, like bodies in the last stage of putrification. I expect I would have disliked Ferdinand's revered ancestor almost as much as I despise him.

You see, this is the man who laughed in my face when he told me he already knew the truth behind Rina's death. This is the man who told me that the most terrible mistake of my life didn't matter, because I didn't matter and neither did she. But there will be a day, I think, when Rina will matter to him and my fate, too, will become an issue of the utmost importance to this reptile. For there will be a time when I will hold his life in my hands and then I will tell him that it is of little consequence, that no one will notice when we toss his corpse into the green slime that gloms around the docks of the Rialto.

There will be a day, yes, but it is not today and so I must listen to his reprimands and pretend that I am but an irascible rogue, little capable of forethought, indulging only my own caprices.

Ferdinand shakes his head. "Ah, yes, that is the ridiculous pride, the impudence that I remember so well. Born in the filth of an elven whore's bed and yet you aspire to toy with the fates of princes. I fear you will meet a sad end, one as shameful as your beginning."

I am about to answer him when Nerissa steps in, her doll-like body bristling with disdain. "You are an envious old man, aren't you? You fear Master Zevran and well you should, for he assassinated an archdemon and he will make short work of a fiend like you."

As much as I admire a spirited woman, I wish she had held her tongue, for it is one thing for masters to quarrel and quite another for pupils to take sides in their disputes. Without help, without protection, poor Nerissa's life will be a brief tale, indeed.

Ferdinand laughs. "What a fond, silly child, you are, my dear Nerissa. Were I you, I would watch the company you keep. Your new friend has a disquieting tendency of slitting the throat of any woman he gets too sweet on."

He turns away, confident that he has enjoyed the last word, and I raise my last throwing dagger, aiming it for the back of his neck.

It is not the knowledge that I would surely die that stills my arm. It is not the awareness that I would have failed my mission for the sake of avenging a few careless words. It is only Nerissa's hand clutched around my bicep that keeps me from throwing it all away for the unmitigated pleasure of putting a blade through Ferdinand's lying throat.

"Don't," she whispers. "Not yet. Not here."

I lower my blade. Smiling at Nerissa, I cradle her hand between both of my own and kiss it. "And suddenly you are become so wise, my sweet. I wish you had displayed such a caution and forbearance but a few moments before, for I fear you have angered him and it may go badly for you."

"He hates to be called 'old'," she says. "In any case, I do not care for him nor will I fear his jealousy."

"Ah, but you should, Nerissa. He may be long in the tooth and his hairline may be making a quick and cowardly retreat from his forehead, but he has seen much in his years and will be a formidable foe. It would be best if you honeyed your words and made him your friend again."

"You counsel me well, but I shall not," she says, raising her chin as if she might make herself taller and more imposing by sheer force of will.

I chuckle at the boldness of uncompromising and uncompromised youth. "Then we shall have to be allies. It is not healthy for you, my dear, to make a powerful enemy unless you possess a stronger friend."

She nods her head, giving my hand a little squeeze before she lets it go. "Yes, that would please me greatly, Master Zevran."

"This 'Master' business, it sounds very kinky, no? Perhaps it is best you should simply call me 'Zev'...unless you wish to tease me with wicked thoughts."

Nerissa offers me an impish smile. "It may be that I do, Zev."

I grin. "Yes, I thought so. For as innocent as you look, you are a Crow, nonetheless, and must always have an ulterior motive. Perhaps we shall discuss such things later this evening, in a more conducive atmosphere?"

"Such as your quarters?"

"That would be one possibility, yes. Would that please you?"

She bites her ripe lips, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "I think it might be the source of some considerable pleasure for me."

"Then I shall look forward to the occasion with much anticipation."

There is a pause in the conversation, as Nerissa approaches the portrait of the Queen of Swords and retrieves my daggers from the canvas. When she returns, she looks paler than her wont and I know that she is questioning her trust in me - with good reason, given the facts of my past.

"About what Master Ferdinand said...is there any truth in it?"

I measure my words with some care, for while I will not lie, never in this, I do not wish to scare her. "There is a grain of truth in almost every lie, Nerissa."

"Zevran, you wouldn't do me harm, would you?"

"No," I tell her. "I am not that person."

She lowers her eyes, masking her thoughts beneath blue-veined lids and pale lashes. "Then what was Ferdinand referring to? You implied there was truth in his lie."

"When I was but a little older than you are now, I made a grievous mistake. It is one that I would never repeat."

"I see."

"You must excuse me if I do not wish to speak of it."

"One day, perhaps?"

"That may be so. Until then, please trust that I would never hurt you."

Nerissa gives me a wry look. "Unless you were paid to do it."

"I doubt there is enough gold in all of Thedas to tempt me."

"Yet we all have our price, don't we?"

I shrug my shoulders. "We would not be Crows if we did not."

"I'll see you this evening in your quarters," she says. "We shall talk more then."

"Yes. I have a job for you in mind, as well, if you are interested. I shall confide the details to you in more intimate surroundings."

"I'm sure I'll enjoy listening to what you have to say. Adieu, my friend."

Nerissa turns on the high heel of her satin shoe, a cloud of red-gold hair swirling behind her as she hurries back towards the Great Hall, no doubt running late for another appointment. She doesn't have Rina's intoxicating danger, the dark glitter behind her eyes that enchanted and enticed me, but I find that her kittenish charm and her strange vulnerability disarm me - that is a threat in itself. I am so fond of wooing perilous beauty, of playing myself false by giving into my softest impulses when I should harden myself to this wicked world.

I shall prepare for our assignation this evening, where I will tell Nerissa the details of my plan to assassinate the Prince of Parmia. She need not know why he must die or who I work for, only that she will be paid and that I will shelter her from any of Ferdinand's machinations. Once I have a partner-in-crime, I shall be able to report back to Sapphire and let her know that the mission may commence.

Sapphire will no doubt be pleased at the news, for she is impatient, wishing to make the messy business of killing as efficient as her clean, cold espionage. Of course, I can't imagine that she will be fond of Nerissa, for she casts scorn and aspersion upon all my female companions and will surely dismiss her as another 'empty-headed little minx'. Ferelden's spymaster is more charitable to the men in my life, a trifle less sharp-tongued, although I fear that I shall have to help Elendra end another Blight if I wish to earn a word of praise from the insatiable Sapphire. I expect the days ahead will be nearly as challenging as my role in that arduous quest – for it is not a simple matter to arrange the murder of Crows.


	9. Lady, Baby, Brother and the Bard

**Elendra**

I did everything I could to prepare myself to be a mother, yet the reality of it surprises me anew with each cry, shriek or giggle my son makes, with each inexplicable twitch of his ten miraculous fingers or each wriggle of his ten wonderful toes. I have become quite a worshipper of this plump little god, carrying him around swaddled in a yellow blanket and attending to his every infantile whim with the speed of one who lives in dread of a deity's mighty wrath or at the very least, his powerful lungs, which wake me in the middle of the night with some frequency.

A few of the noblewomen have criticized me for interrupting court occasions to go forth and breastfeed the babe, a concern that the impertinent creatures felt was better left to a wet nurse - as if I would condescend to let those meddling gooses tell me how to care for my child. I am quite proud of my solution to this, which was absurdly simple and for that reason, marvellously effective. When they inquired if I had procured the services of a wet nurse, I feigned utter ignorance and said, "Oh, isn't that an _Orlesian fashion_? Oh, but I should not like to be a slave to such _unnatural _and _immodest affectations _as those practiced in _Vaux Royaux_". What a delight it was to see these same ladies scramble to prove themselves true Fereldans, lauding me for the very acts that they had once claimed to be the doings of only peasants and elves. I must give credit where it is due and confess that it was none other than Loghain MacTir who inspired me in this ingenious stratagem. If the sour old trout were still among the living, I should have to convey my thanks, although I suspect he'd only glower at me and remark on the fact that I am a wicked hypocrite who sings Orlesian lullabies to put my child to sleep.

In our correspondence, I inquired if Alistair wished to suggest a particular name for his child-to-be. He replied that he would defer to my judgement in the matter, but that it would please him if the baby was not named after any great or famous predecessor and thus did not have to bear the burden of another man's legacy from his birth. I do not understand his qualms in this matter, for the child will have to claim the Theirin legacy that Alistair so fears, regardless of whether we call our baby 'Duncan' or 'Maric' or 'Rumplestiltskin'. Nevertheless, I have taken him at his word and chosen a name free from the weight of dynasty or national history. The child shall be known as Ciaran, a well-loved name amongst the people of Highever, the place that I shall always account my spiritual home.

Indeed, Ciaran underwent his official naming ceremony today in the Chantry of Denerim amidst much pomp and circumstance for one so small, little more than a few weeks old. Ciaran acquitted himself admirably, although I fear he did not enjoy having water splashed on his forehead and already appears to share his father's dislike of ostentatious public occasions. I enjoyed the sight of him in his white satin christening gown, for his tufts of blond hair have a peculiar way of sticking up in all directions and he looked quite befuddled by all the strange big people kissing his forehead, pinching his plump cheeks, joggling him upon their knees and doting upon his every yawn, sneeze or smile. His head is impossibly large for his body, too, and when I have him sitting upright, he often gives me the impression that he shall shortly topple over under the sheer weight of his enormous noggin.

True to form, Leliana is over the moon with him and has spent most of this afternoon in raptures over the presents he has received from various dignitaries.

"Oh, but this is so sweet! He must try it on!" she says, grabbing up a golden helmet sent from King Bhelen in honour of my son's birth.

"It's much too heavy for him," I reply, laughing. "And his head is already fat enough as it is! I fear his poor neck will not endure the strain."

"Oh, you're just mean," Leliana replies. "His head is the perfect size."

She puts down the helmet and takes up a much more sensible gift sent from Zevran. "What's in this bottle?"

"Very expensive, very potent liquor."

Leliana raises an eyebrow. "I know Zev had an unusual upbringing, but really – for an infant?"

"I think he intends it for the infant's foolish mother."

She shakes her head as if entirely at a loss, although I know that she and Zevran understand one another quite well. "That wicked rascal - he has no love for children at all, does he?"

I smile at my Antivan ally's impressive foresight. "Oh, I think he enjoys little people well enough from a safe distance. He just knows that their parents could sometimes use a stiff drink. Oghren brought booze too. I'm lucky to have such considerate friends."

"You know, I'm starting think that I want a baby."

I give her a look of genuine surprise, which should flatter her, for it's becoming increasingly difficult to shock me. "So you can receive such lovely gifts of alcohol?"

"No! For the sake of having a baby, you madwoman!"

"Really? Well, you're so charming and lovely, I'm sure any man in this room would oblige you in the essentials."

"Oh, I don't want a man and certainly not a husband. How tiresome that would be. I just want an adorable little baby to dress in clothes and play with all day long."

"Leli, dear, I do hope you realize they're not nugs."

She giggles. "Yes, I know that they're people and that they're a terrible responsibility. Anyway, can you imagine what Brother Genitivi would think if I went back to Haven pregnant with some noble's baby?"

"You could tell the good brother that it came from the Maker," I whisper. "Why, the Maker heard you singing and was so touched by your song..."

Leliana gasps and smacks my arm in feigned indignation. "Oh, you! You are wicked! They would declare a Divine March against you for that!"

Really, I believe that she enjoys my petty blasphemies, which must prove a refreshing change from the company she usually keeps. I imagine that Brother Genitivi and his relic-crazed horde of pilgrims get dreadfully dull sometimes, with all that high-mindedness and holiness and unremitting piety.

"Now, now, you must admit that, by Chantry standards, it's a perfectly logical explanation," I inform her. "I'm surprised that no wanton Sister has ever tried to make use of it before."

"You are very bad, but we have fun, don't we? It's much like old times," Lelianna says. "But I do wish Alistair were here. It seems silly that he should miss this."

I wish the same. Much as I have yearned to be reunited with my husband these last few months, I missed his presence most after Ciaran's birth. Alistair has denied himself so much in his decision to remain absent and, while there will always be room for him in his son's life, he will never regain the benefit of these first days - the sweet, milky smell of a swaddled baby, the soft down of his hair or the sudden laughter that springs from his funny, toothless mouth. I wish that he was here to enjoy these pleasures with me, for children grow quickly and the delights of infancy are fleeting. I wish, too, that my mother and father could be here, so that my son might know his grandparents. There are so many gaps in Ciaran's life, ones that I fear my own decisions and mistakes have had a part in, and although he is much too young to realize, it pains me that he should lack for anything.

"Yes, it is unfortunate," I say, hoping that my face does not display the true nature of my thoughts. "Yet he shall see Ciaran when he returns. I trust he will get to have his fair share of smiles and baby spit-up and sleepless nights."

"You're very brave about it all," she replies. "I am just furious with him for being away! If I cross his path, I plan to give him a terrible scolding."

"Oh, do let the poor fellow be, Leliana! He may be able to face ogres, but you are much too fierce an opponent. Besides, he is only doing what he feels is right."

Leliana toys with another of Ciaran's christening gifts, a small viridian shield, and pretends to pout. "Duty and honour and doing the mighty work of the Grey Wardens – yes, yes, I know. Men are much too fond of such silliness."

"What are you saying about men now? Every time I turn around, I catch you ladies sullying our good names! I must rescue this poor boy from these cruel women." Fergus says, swooping in to snatch Ciaran from my arms.

He has experience with children and he does not handle him with the same reverent, anxious delicacy I often employ. He plucks the baby up as if he's hefting a sack of potatoes – seeing it leaves me a nervous wreck and yet I cannot fault him, for I know he was a very good father and would never do anything to put Ciaran in jeopardy.

I was worried that the sight of his nephew might cause Fergus sorrow at the terrible losses of Oren and Oriana, but he has seemed in high spirits during this visit and his presence has been a wonderful comfort to me. It occurs to me that he must be lonely in Highever and is grateful to have the distraction of company. I hope that, in coming months, my dear brother will recover enough to consider taking a wife to the Cousland name, for the companionship and the stability would be good for him and for our house. At the very least, I shall suggest that he invite more knights and squires onto the estate, so he might have a larger group of fellows to carouse with and engage in the hunting parties he once so enjoyed. It is better, I think, that he be kept busy, for when left to one's own devices, it is easy to despair and drift into a brooding melancholy.

"We're talking of the king and how I plan to box his ears for not attending his own son's christening," Leliana says.

"Well, he has his task to perform and it wouldn't do for a man to look over-fond," Fergus replies, poking at Ciaran's nose. "You can trust that the news has brought him much joy and he is all too eager to hie himself home."

I hope that is true, but it is hard for me not to have reservations, to wonder precisely how much joy the news will bring Alistair and just how much doubt or grief it may give him to question whether the boy is his.

I have not acquainted Fergus with my troubles and would never confess the lengths I have gone to in order to bear my husband's heir and ensure the line of succession. It's not that I don't trust my brother, although he has a rather conventional turn of mind and my choices would likely appal him. The more pressing issue, however, is that I would not wish him to be implicated what I have done; to have knowledge of it and not speak out against me would be enough to make him a traitor. If I am to be shamed and condemned, I will not have Fergus and all that remains of House Cousland fall with me.

"I am sorely disappointed with that Alistair," Leliana gripes. "You should have seen the way he used to court your little sister, Fergus. He was the most chivalrous of knights, so attentive and bashful and awkward! It was very sweet, like something out of the ballads."

Fergus chuckles. "You're a bard and you've listened to too many old tales. Nobody goes on like that forever."

"I shall have to remind myself never to fall in love in with you, Fergus," Leliana teases. "Handsome, you may be, Teyrn Cousland, but you are far too cynical!"

"Oh, but the baby in his arms makes for a lovely accessory, you must confess," I chime in. "Why, Leliana, I think you're half in love with him already."

Fergus scowls at my jibe, though I know for a fact that he finds the bard attractive. He displays a marked fondness for foreign accents. "Pah, can you imagine how ridiculous it'd be to see a king flouncing about reciting all sorts of mushy sonnets and tossing flowers at his lady love night and day? Why, Len, you wouldn't be able to stand anything so sickly sweet. Any fellow stupid enough to do it, you'd punch him in the nose!"

"Not so," I mutter. "Not true at all. You know absolutely nothing on the subject. I've never made you privy to any of my affairs of the heart."

"Is that so? Well, I remember how cruelly you mocked poor Ser Gilmore when his head got addled and he went batty enough to go fond on you," Fergus replies. "Such a shrewish thing, you were. I was right glad of it, too, or I should have been forced to fight the fellow and I liked him too much for that."

I shoot Leliana an enigmatic smile and say nothing at all to contradict my big brother's delusions. What Fergus missed, of course, after the initial incident when Gilmore and I had a falling-out, were the ensuing few months in which we were engaged in quite a tempestuous adolescent affair - one that ended in many sighs and tears, I might add, for Aldous caught me writing a love note during one of his history lectures and tattled on me to Mother. I suppose I should be glad that Father and my vexatious elder brother never found out or I expect I should have been put to much more shame in the matter.

"I hope you won't have me exact any sort of brotherly vengeance upon your husband, Len. I shouldn't like to fight a king and a Grey Warden, even if he has annoyed my little sister."

"But what a wondrous comfort it would be to watch the two of you beating one another senseless," I reply. "It would do my heart such marvellous good and heap so much honour upon the Cousland name."

"If you give up that withering sarcasm, I may just invite you back to Highever," Fergus says. "Believe it or not, you're missed there. I haven't the least idea why."

I smile at him. "I should like that very much. It's a slow season here, with summer coming on. Perhaps I will accompany you back to the estate when you depart Denerim and we shall show Ciaran where his mother's family hails from."

"Will you be joining us, as well, Leliana?" Fergus inquires.

My, but he is suave about it, too, this Teyrn Cousland – he gives a lady the invitation to look over his estate just as casual as you please. Now if only I could convince that flighty, dear Orlesian girl to stop obsessing over that blasted Andraste and her vase full of holy dust. Her prospects here in civilized society just became a sight more intriguing.

"It is an enticing offer, but I must decline for now," Leliana says, much as I anticipated. "There's so much to do back in Haven. The scholars said they would delay the next expedition for me and I don't want to make them wait any longer."

"But surely the fellows know you're worth waiting for," I say, grinning at my friend.

"Of course, I am, but the Maker waits for no man...and very few women," Leliana replies with a wink. "Only Andraste, I think, and I'm certainly not in her league."

"Oh well, I shall have my sarcastic sister for company, anyway," Fergus says, grinning as he rocks Ciaran back and forth. "And this little one, too. Good enough, for the time being, I suppose."

The idea of another trip to Highever pleases me more than I can say. It will be lovely to have a little rest from the frantic pace of life in Denerim and the constant scrum of Court. Besides, I will still be within hailing distance should any emergencies pop up. I know that Arl Eamon and the chief of treasury, as well as my veritable army of secretaries will do a creditable job dealing with day-to-day business, as long as I leave a heap of instructions and set clear priorities regarding our shared work.

It is not my natural tendency to cede control, not of state affairs, or of anything else, for that matter, but it will good to visit again with my brother and, truth be told, it will ease my heart, too, to be amongst family for a week or two. Although we fret and quarrel as all siblings do, my brother and I have learned to lean upon one another in trying times. These days, more than ever, I feel that I could benefit from his faithful heart, his steady nature, for I am not as brave as my bluster and there are moments when even my blessings appear as burdens.


	10. Shades of Grey

**Alistair**

When I had this sudden brainwave about recruiting Cullen into the Grey Wardens, there was one rather pressing issue that entirely slipped my mind. In coming up with the spur-of-the-moment plan, it didn't occur to me that I would be spending days confined in close quarters with a suspicious templar suffering through the worst stages of lyrium withdrawal.

As a result of this, our journey all the way to Weisshaupt was an interesting experience, to say the least. We passed several days getting jostled about on the carriage ride to Jader while Cullen tried to still his shaky hands and then I whiled away a few more weeks guarding the poor fellow while he stumbled around a ship's cabin, clawing the walls in the throes of mage-related paranoia. During these zany adventures, I learned a great deal about my new friend's psyche - perhaps a bit too much, actually. Cullen babbled on for hours, offering up a profusion of inventive if incoherent conspiracy theories. I also discovered his bizarre fondness for liver and onions and witnessed him suffering recurring hallucinations involving bloodthirsty rabbits lunging for his throat.

In a more melancholy frame of mind, he was upset over the fate of a certain mage he referred to only as Amell, a young woman he guarded during a Harrowing, who was apparently later sent off to the Aeonar for aiding a maleficar. I suspect there is a story there, but I fear it is a delicate subject and I don't plan to bring it up with him. Even a half-arsed former trainee like me knows that templars are not supposed to be entertaining tender sentiments for their charges and I don't imagine that Cullen would appreciate knowing that I unwittingly unearthed his deep, dark secret.

For a time, I worried that my new recruit's mental deterioration might be permanent, but thankfully, he hadn't been subject to lyrium dependency quite so long as many of the more senior templars. By the time we reached Nevarra, he became quite sensible again and even started to display a sense of humour about the whole ordeal, which surprised and impressed me. Our travels over the Silent Plains and along the Imperial Highway to Weisshaupt were much more congenial and I quite enjoyed introducing my strait-laced templar friend to the vastly underrated pleasures of slaying darkspawn, making loud and rambling toasts and drinking good ale from filthy tavern glasses.

It's been nice to see Cullen transferring his rather exaggerated abhorrence for magic to something a bit more productive and I have high hopes for his potential as a Grey Warden. Of course, we're here in Weisshaupt now and with his Joining ceremony imminent, I'm a bit of a nervous wreck. I wonder if Duncan felt this dreadful, queasy feeling every time he put candidates through their paces or if his qualms gradually succumbed to the knowledge that the sacrifice was necessary, that it could not be helped. I tend to think that he tried to choose people who weren't afraid to die, whether because they had already lived through the worst and had nothing left to mourn or because they didn't have much of a life to begin with. When he picked me, I fear that I might have fallen into Category B, shameful as it is to admit.

When I'm not fretting over Cullen's chances of surviving the Joining, I am wondering about the child and the progress of Elendra's pregnancy. The messengers are tardy and infrequent, but we have managed to exchange a few letters since our parting. She assures me that all is well in her meticulous penmanship, but her tone is so composed, so business-like, that it disturbs me. It would be just like her to be dreadfully ill and never mention it, to conceal all weakness and close her heart to me the way a prize fighter balls his hand into a fist. I have been counting down the months and I expect that the baby's birth must be drawing near. Why, for all I know, Ferelden may have an heir. I may have a son, although there are moments when I fear that I am not a father.

Instead of much-anticipated news on this front, I have recently been receiving correspondence from Goldanna, letters so cheery and effusive that I'm certain Len has been stage-managing the business behind the scenes. By now, I know my own half-sister and while Goldanna has her virtues, she is certainly not as open-hearted as to voluntarily write me gushing anecdotes about my nieces and nephews or to detail the latest news of Denerim without some external motivation. In a way, it is a comfort, a sign that Len still cares, but I would rather she would express herself directly, without schemes and obfuscations, rather than compelling some sort of reluctant sibling bonding between Goldanna and me.

Nevertheless, it is good to have reminders of home, for Weisshaupt is a cold, foreign place, an isolated mountain town surrounded by a massive fortress hewn out of the rock. The cavernous hall where we held the solemn memorial for the fallen Wardens of Ostagar is a place where voices echo into emptiness, a mausoleum occupied by many grim-faced men who speak few words of the common tongue and appear to possess little interest in making idle chatter with a travelling royal from Ferelden. The mountain vistas are spectacular, of course, and I find time for contemplation that I should not otherwise have in Denerim, where most everyone I encountered seemed to want a piece of me and my wonderful Theirin name.

Cullen's Joining ceremony commences on a chilly night in the vast main hall of the fortress. The recruits file in bearing red lanterns - an eccentricity peculiar to the Anderfels, I think. I am also surprised to see that there are many more candidates for this Joining than the usual three. Indeed, I count eleven prospective Grey Wardens in all and some of them look much too young for my liking, not the grizzled warriors that I used to see accompanying Duncan. Under the lurid light cast by their lanterns, they look like little more than skittish youths and in this state, I would no more pit them against a darkspawn horde than I would put a halla amidst a pack of ravening wolves.

I see Cullen amongst the recruits, a head taller and a good decade older than most of the lot. He shoots me a nervous smile as he walks past. "Well, here goes nothing. Thanks for taking me this far."

I nod at him. "You won't thanking me when you taste the stuff, believe me."

I'm trying to appear stoic without looking like an undertaker, to seem encouraging without being enthusiastic, although I mainly just feel as if my stomach is turning inside out. I remember going through this with Len, hours after we'd first met, and Maker, it's agonizing to stand there and trust to fate when you feel so bloody involved, so terribly responsible. You have to just disassociate, to view the process as natural, inevitable, but it's hard when you're really rooting for someone to make it.

Sigmund, the man in charge of the Anderfels Wardens, doesn't seem to stand much on ceremony. He hands out chalices of darkspawn blood to each of the recruits, unconcerned by the lack of individual recognition. This is something that I always thought was significant in the ritual as Duncan performed it, the time given to each candidate and the unflinching acknowledgement of what each person is giving up to take on this arduous new life. It may be possible to chalk it up as a matter of cultural difference, but the absence of this recognition here makes me deeply uncomfortable. This is supposed to be an honour, a noble sacrifice done for the greater good and yet, tonight, it feels more like a haphazard slaughter, a cruel game of chance.

Sigmund gives an instruction in the local dialect and then repeats it in the common tongue for the benefit of visiting Wardens like myself. "Toast your fellows and drink the blood. We shall see if you have the mettle to stand among the Grey Wardens."

"Wait a moment," I interrupt. "I believe it would be fitting to speak the invocation first."

Sigmund shoots me an incredulous glance, his grey eyes narrowing, and then looks to his followers. "The invocation? That is but a formality. Everyone already knows what we are here for."

"The invocation would please me as well," a feminine voice interjects. I recognize just the faintest hint of an Orlesian accent, dulled and muddied by travel and frequent use of the common language.

Turning my head a few degrees to the left, I glimpse the owner of the voice, a slight elven woman attired in simple mage's robes, her dark hair streaked with silver. She knows I am looking at her but she seems intent on avoiding my eyes. Her gaze is locked on Sigmund as if they are conducting a silent conversation, one that doesn't look particularly friendly.

"Very well. If you insist, then we will do the invocation!" Sigmund says, nodding to his confederates. "Perhaps Fiona will do us the honour. Not that most of these slobs will understand a bloody word."

The elven woman called Fiona bows her head, several strands of hair falling across her face. She speaks the invocation in a low voice, but one that possesses both dignity and a quiet authority.

"Join us brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

Sigmund chuckles and claps his hands together. "Bravo. What a performance. Now, I'll make it real simple: Grey Wardens kill darkspawn. Those of you that live, that's what you're going to do. Drink up, everybody!" He adds something to this in the tongue of the Anderfels and while I couldn't offer a literal translation, I'd venture to say it was a string of very motivational curse words, for all the younger recruits looked startled and dutifully drink their darkspawn blood.

I watch Cullen as he draws the goblet to his mouth and gulps down the vile concoction. The youth beside him has already fallen to the stone floor and sprawls there, unmoving, but the templar never hesitates.

The chalice falls from his hand as his eyes roll back in his head, white and round as a pair of boiled eggs. His mouth hangs open as he gives a few shuddering breaths, looking like something that just came shambling out of a crypt. He stands there, swaying, for a few decisive seconds and then hits the ground hard.

I'm pretty sure he's going to make it. Some of the others won't be so fortunate. A couple of the Anderfels Wardens, members of Sigmund's crew, are already inspecting the heaped bodies for vital signs before they haul them away.

I hurry over to Cullen before the vultures descend. "Come on. Time to wake up now, friend. You got through lyrium withdrawal. You can pull through this."

His face twitches and he gives a weary groan, his hand swatting at my face. "Go 'way, you damn dragon. You heard me. I won't repeat myself."

I chuckle a bit because I've never heard Cullen curse before, even when he had desire demons writhing around him like horned harlots, trying to squirm into his skull. He's so polite and proper and civil, he makes me feel downright corrupt, an apple rotted to the core.

I'm surprised when Fiona stoops down beside me, her face hidden behind a tangled curtain of hair. She lifts one of Cullen's eyelids with a delicate finger and examines his creepy white eyeball, as if this sort of thing is a mundane occurrence. I guess that, for a full-time Grey Warden, it is.

"Give him a couple minutes and he'll come to," she murmurs, turning her back on me as she rises to her feet. "And stay away from Sigmund and his compatriots. They're dangerous people. Not your kind."

"Dangerous? In what way?"

"They're Grey Wardens, sure enough, but they don't play by any rules you'd understand," she replies. "Things aren't as clean-cut here as they are in your native Ferelden."

"I'm well aware there's something shady going on here. Tonight's Joining just confirmed it. I'd like a proper explanation, to know the story behind it. Maybe I can do something to improve the situation."

Fiona reels around and for the first time, she looks directly at me, her dark eyes like dagger-points. She's a petite person, diminutive even by elven standards, but she could frighten off an ogre with that glare of hers. "You do what I say and you stay out of it. It isn't your concern."

"The honour of the Grey Wardens is my concern."

"Honour?" She laughs, a strange, strangled sound, a discord that might come from turning the crank of a smashed music box. "If you think the Grey Wardens are about honour, you're mistaken."

I persist. "Then tell me what it is to be a Grey Warden. I'm willing to learn."

"It's about doing what is necessary. To survive," she answers. "And for some of them that means power. It means blood, and not just the blood of darkspawn either."

"And what if I think what they're doing is unnecessary? What if I think it's wrong?"

"That's between you and your conscience," she murmurs. "But there's no victory here for you. Go home to your throne and your pretty queen. Your child should have a father."

I stare at her in astonishment. "How do you know -?"

"I know enough about you, Alistair Theirin. I know that you have things worth living for."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Not all questions require answers."

With that cryptic pronouncement, Fiona walks away, the hem of her robe sweeping behind her.

Cullen regains consciousness a minute later, to my infinite relief. He's still quite woozy and has a ghastly goose-egg rising on the side of his head from his sudden collision with the floor, but then nobody comes out of a Joining looking fresh as a daisy. Not me, that's for sure. I've been gritting my teeth together for the past hour, my knees are knocking together under my armour and I'm wearing a harried look that would make Knight-Commander Greagoir seem like a narcoleptic Tranquil by comparison.

I hand Cullen his Warden's Oath amulet, which I prepared in advance like a good little Grey Warden. "It's official. You're one of us now, for better or worse, 'til death or the Calling do we part. Are you excited?"

Cullen squints at the token. "Sure. Being alive is good news. What's this necklace about?"

"A souvenir of this thankfully once-in-a-lifetime experience," I tell him. "Also, a glamorous accessory for you to display as you embark upon your fabulous Grey Warden lifestyle."

"So thoughtful, you are."

"It goes really nicely with a lot of ensembles. Especially ones covered in coagulate gore. I'm aware that cutting a stylish figure is important for us templar types."

This coaxes a bit of a smile out of Cullen, although he looks pained, as if he's suffering from the mother of all migraines. "I like to think the Maker wants his servants to look presentable."

"In all seriousness, this amulet is a symbol of your new duties, to protect against future Blights and to do what's needed to serve the greater good," I tell him. "It contains a drop of the darkspawn blood you drank tonight, to remind you of your commitment and to commemorate those who didn't make it."

"That seems fitting. Although it all reeks a bit of blood magic, don't you think?" Cullen says. "Are you certain the Wardens aren't plotting something unsavoury?"

"Oh, blast it. Don't tell me you're still stuck on that kick."

Cullen raises his hands in protest. "Joking, joking! Although you have to admit that the Grey Wardens could make an effort to be less...ominous. It would be more reassuring if they'd stop holding their secret ceremonies in the dead of night."

I smile and help him up to his feet. "For some reason, Grey Wardens have never made public relations much of a priority. Maybe you'll have to remedy that."

"First, I think I'd like a nap," he says. "Unless there's pressing business?"

"No emergencies here."

Cullen gives me an awkward salute and saunters off towards the barracks. Watching my friend stumble away, as dizzy and faint-headed as he appears, I experience a surge of pride and a satisfaction in the knowledge that he's made it through. With the benefit of that templar training and the discipline that accompanies it, I think he's going to be a real asset when it comes to rebuilding the order in Ferelden. I can only hope that Cullen will gain some fulfillment from the work too, the sense of deeper purpose that being a Grey Warden provided me when I was close to despairing of my life altogether.

I wish I could feel as optimistic about the future of the Wardens here in Weisshaupt. Riordan hinted that there were problems here, but I suppose I never realized how dire the situation really was. I don't know why this Warden Fiona troubled to warn me off or why she bothers about my well-being, but while I appreciate her concerns, I want to investigate and acquaint myself with what's happening, even if I'm not equipped to solve the problems on my own. I don't like the idea that these Wardens of the Anderfels may be plotting all manner of treachery in the same hallowed halls where Duncan, Cailan and the Ostagar fallen received posthumous honours, in the place where a tribute to Elendra's victory over the archdemon will soon be unveiled. I will tread lightly and carefully, but I want to understand what it is that these Wardens stand for and how it is that their values appear to differ so greatly from the ones Duncan imparted to me. This is the birthplace of the Grey Wardens, for good or for ill, and I wish to uncover the truth of our beginnings.


	11. The Quick and the Dead

**Zevran**

Dodging past the hooded courier, I slink down the path towards the wrought-iron gates of the Palazzo Dei Corvi, where a carriage awaits me.

"A message, sir!" the spurned courier cries, chasing at my heels. "High priority!"

"They're all high priority. Leave it at my quarters."

I dig into my pocket and flip him a gold piece over my shoulder, but still the messenger dogs my steps. Ah, such a persistent knave, this one! Surely he cannot be expecting a more generous tip?

"Sir! I was told -"

"Don't press your luck," I warn him. "I specialize in the disposal of human obstacles."

A shabby green carriage rolls up in front of the gates and I leap inside, snapping the door shut behind me.

"Bellamorte Gardens," I tell the driver through the partition. "If you are swift, you will see gold for it."

The carriage rattles away, the hooves of the horses sending up a cloud of dust for my courier friend to choke upon.

I consider myself the very soul of patience, one who has never suffered from a nervous disposition and thrives even amidst chaos, but, I confess, my endurance has its limits. It has already been a very busy morning and I am running late for an appointment with an eminent personage - none other than Bartholomeo Rienza, Prince of Parmia - a meeting from which only one of us will emerge alive. Surely, in such situations, a fellow can be excused for discourtesy and issuing the occasional death threat to a self-important messenger. After all, one wouldn't expect a great painter to put the final brushstrokes to his masterpiece while a mob of lunatics ran riot around him. It seems reasonable enough that an artist of assassination should be accorded the same level of respect and consideration.

We race through the commercial district of Antiva City, wheels clattering over the cobblestone streets, the odours of smoked meat and boiled leather penetrating even the wooden walls of the carriage.

"Faster, good sir," I urge the driver. "My time is at a premium."

I can't tell him that there is both a life and a death that depend on my timely arrival, but he understands the tension in my voice and the reliable language of profit. I hear the man cracking the reins, the carriage hurtling through the narrow streets of the city, pushing ever closer to the Bellamorte Gardens, the urban oasis of the Rienza banker princes.

When I see the walls of the Gardens looming out the carriage window, I halt the headlong ride, fling a purse at the driver and rush away on foot. Getting on to the estate is a relatively simple matter, as I have had occasion to work here before and am well-acquainted with the neighbourhood, its conditions, the opportunities and pitfalls it presents to a professional such as myself. I dart down a grimy side alley, climb up to a balcony overlooking the grounds and, balancing nimbly on the painted rail, I spring over the garden wall.

My landing is somewhat less graceful than I'd anticipated, for they have done some re-landscaping since my last visit and I had not foreseen that I would plant myself almost directly on top of a rose bush. Aside from acquiring a few scratches from the thorns, my pride is more wounded than my body. While I continue in the bloom of good health, the flowers, I fear, do not emerge in such a lovely condition. I pluck one of the surviving blooms as a teasing gift for Nerissa and run off in search of the lady assassin and our noble target.

Taking cover behind a delightful shrubbery cut in the shape of a lion, I catch sight of my noble quarry. Rienza looks much thinner in his portraits. In person, he is not a very prepossessing fellow, jowly and bow-legged as a bulldog, with only his luxuriant white hair and fine epaulettes to distract from the boils on his nose. I must say that I am rather relieved that he enjoys only women, for I should not have savoured deploying my more seductive assassination techniques.

Nerissa strolls alongside this Toad Prince, her arm laced through his, and I am pleased to say that she looks most convincing in the role of courtesan, smiling at his observations and toying with her strands of paste pearls. Rienza's guards follow the darling pair, just a few steps back, well-armed and heavily-armoured, despite the heat of the day. I won't commence my work until they are out of sight or at a minimum, out of striking range. There is also a gardener trimming the hedges, but I doubt he'll see much from under that broad-brimmed sunhat. Of course, it is always best to be aware of unpredictable elements, 'innocent bystanders' and the like. They have this unpleasant habit of screaming or running about helter-skelter, frantic as ants, and it unsettles my focus.

From my concealment, I make the sound of a dove cooing, the signal Nerissa and I have agreed upon to alert her to my presence. At this sign, she starts getting much friendlier with Rienza, stroking his chest, giving him ardent looks and heaving deep sighs that only accentuate the charms of her bosom, deploying all the favourite tricks of the kept woman. I doubt these tactics impress Rienza much, for, unlovely as he is, his fortune buys him ladies of all varieties and such flirtatious enticements are not a novelty. Nevertheless, she is young, pretty and pliable, all alone with him in his garden, and the old ram will not miss his chance.

One may hope that he won't suddenly reveal himself as a lewd exhibitionist and decide to tup the poor girl in front of his guards or I may be forced to throw daggers. That's messy, uncertain business, and if the guards start flailing those swords about, I don't foresee a happy ending for poor Nerissa.

I am relieved when the prince sends the guards packing. They'll still be loitering about, bored and sleepy under the oppressive simmer of the noonday sun, but we may be able to avoid them entirely, if we are quiet and efficient in our work. Even the gardener has the good sense to disappear from view and I am no longer to have my concentration broken by the little "snip-snip" of hedge shears.

Rienza presses Nerissa up against an olive tree and starts kissing down her neck, probably leaving a fine trail of slobber on her creamy skin while he's at it. Not that he would care about her discomfort, so long as her flesh feels good under his grasping hands. My partner-in-crime looks noticeably relieved when she observes me sneaking up behind him, dagger at the ready. She pushes him back and then falls to the ground, embracing the back of his knees and toying with his belt buckle as if it is her intention to pleasure him. I am thankful for this, as it holds him in place and gives me easy access to his upper half while she has dealings with his lower.

He startles as my arm draws 'round him and my knife slices into the sagging flesh beneath his chin and then severs the cords of his throat. I press the dagger in as deep as I can, letting him lean his bulk against me until my blade scrapes against bone.

Nerissa moves away, nimbly circling behind me to keep watch, as I ease Rienza's body to the ground. He has been most well-behaved, not making unnecessary protests, not uttering a single cry or gurgle. For good clients like him, I like to take the time to arrange the body nicely. It is not so with all Crows, many of whom derive morbid amusement from posing their victims in all manner of ghastly and improbable tableau before rigor mortis sets in, but I, for one, place a high value on customer service. I stoop down and start to refasten Rienza's belt buckle, when suddenly there is a mad scuffle behind me, the hiss of voices and the noise of Nerissa's silk skirt rustling.

I turn to see Nerissa struggling against the gardener, a dagger clutched in her fist. For his part, the homicidal horticulturist grips her from behind, holding an open pair of gardening shears to her neck as if he plans to snip her head from her torso like a withered flower.

The gardener raises his head and I recognize the startling blue eyes and the finely-chiselled jaw almost at once. It is most certainly Sapphire, although everything else looks decidedly more...male.

"I take it you didn't receive the message I sent by courier," Sapphire deadpans, in a voice about two octaves lower than her (or well, his) usual.

Blaska!

"No, I never had the pleasure," I reply, putting on my most suave and unflappable expression. "Would you care to summarize?"

Nerissa seems ready to cut in, but Sapphire clamps a hand over her mouth and so the girl is forced to content herself with kicking and elbowing at her captor.

"This little creature has been conspiring against you with a certain Master Ferdinand," Sapphire says, pressing the edge of gardening shears a little deeper into Nerissa's neck. "She would have stabbed you when you turned your back, if I hadn't caught hold of her."

I feel a little nauseous, as if I'm still sailing home from Ferelden and the ship's deck is tilting under my feet. Despite her girlish charm and doe-eyed looks, Nerissa is a Crow, born to deception. The dagger still clenched in her hand doesn't push the case in her favour. If she'd been smarter, she would have dropped it.

"Indeed? Nerissa, is this true?"

I gesture to Sapphire to let Nerissa answer and the spymaster obliges, albeit with much ill humour.

"No! This man, he jumped out of nowhere and attacked me," Nerissa says. "I pulled my knife, but I was too slow..."

Sapphire rolls his eyes. "A likely story. How odd that she have her blade turned in your direction, when she was drawing to confront me. I should hope you don't believe this?"

I examine Nerissa's face for a moment, noting the slight twitch of her lips, an involuntary spasm, the way a horse's skin ripples when it feels a fly creeping over its haunches. She stares at me, the pupils in her eyes dilating and I sense her terror.

"No, I do not believe it," I say, at last, with a sigh. "But she lies very prettily. Your true Master would be proud of you, Nerissa."

She begins to cry, although I imagine she sheds most of her tears in anticipation of her own fate and not from any shame or remorse for her betrayal. She studied her Crow lessons well, better than I had anticipated, carving them in her heart. "Please, don't do this. He forced me. He -"

"Shall I -?" Sapphire makes a slit-throat gesture with the hedge shears. "Just give the word." Despite his seen-it-all demeanour, his hand is trembling. Sitting behind that desk at the Queen's Garter, I doubt Ferelden's spymaster often has occasion to stab people with gardening implements.

I look at Nerissa, her fair face streaming with tears, and although I know she is not Rina - that indeed, Rina would have cast scorn upon one such as she – I feel something gnaw at the pit of my gut. Could it be pity? Oh, goodness, I hope it is simply indigestion.

"Let her go," I say. "But she must drop the dagger first."

On cue, Nerissa uncurls her fingers, letting the dagger fall to the grass. I glance over at Sapphire and he removes the gardening shears from the proximity of the girl's windpipe.

"Thank you," Nerissa murmurs, brushing a whorl of red-gold hair back from her face with an air of hurt dignity.

"Remember this: if I show you mercy, it is because you are too weak to do me harm," I tell her. "Now, run. Run for your life, my darling."

She picks up her skirts and flees over the lawn, probably thinking that I am simply playing with her and that, as she dashes away, blessing her good fortune, one of my throwing daggers will find her back.

Sapphire shakes his head, giving me a bewildered smile. "I never took you for such a soft touch. You know that she's going to alert the guards, don't you?"

"Yes. That is why I now suggest we make good our escape. Unless you prefer to stick around and make friends?"

"I think I can abstain," Sapphire replies. His gardener's hat flies from his head when he takes to his heels. His blue-black hair is tied in a thick braid that wags back and forth at me as we flee.

And indeed, we must be quick about our getaway, for I hear the sound of shouting, as the guards glimpse Nerissa. If they confront her first, we will gain a few more moments.

We sprint down the lawn and I take the lead, directing our path towards a grove of fruit trees, whose branches just overhang the walls. I'll admit, it's a slap-dash method of escape since the trees are slender, little better than saplings and I doubt their limbs are very stable, but I am an eternal optimist. Or I was, until I realized that I was going to be taking a friend along for the ride. While Sapphire is in pleasing physical condition and it would unpardonably rude to comment on a lady's proportions (even if she does sometimes reveals herself to be a man) the spymaster is undoubtedly loftier and heavier than me. A branch that would support the delicate frame of an elf won't necessarily take kindly to the presence of a more substantial human form.

When the grove of trees appears in our sights, this problem seems to occur to Sapphire too. "Oh, no, we don't. I don't climb and I don't do trees."

He pronounces the word "trees" as if a pack of marauding oaks killed his family and burned down his village. I can only imagine what he'd think of the Brecilian Forest.

"Well, how did you get in?"

"With this ridiculous disguise, of course. I'm not running about in these absurd pantaloons to make a fashion statement, I promise you," Sapphire replies. "Anyway, you may climb, if you wish, but I shall have to find another way out."

"I'm open to ideas, but I'm not seeing many other possibilities. Come, you shall climb up first and I will help you."

Sapphire shakes his head. "Look, it's a lovely thought, but I can't do it. I shall remain here, in hiding."

"You're afraid of heights, aren't you?"

"I'm not afraid of heights. I'm afraid of falling from heights. I think that's a very reasonable fear to have."

I spot a guard running down the lawn towards us. "Are you also afraid of swords?"

Sapphire scrambles up the tree trunk, grasping the first branch with shaky hands. "Point duly noted."

As my ally edges his way out onto one of the limbs, I start working my way up the trunk, keeping a careful eye on the approaching guard. The silly fellow is waving his sword at me as he runs and while it looks quite funny from a distance, the joke is less amusing the nearer he gets, especially since two of his fellows have decided to join him.

An arrow zings past my head, planting itself into the tree bark. Oh, my. As it turns out, not all the guards have swords.

As the arrows fly, Sapphire starts moving faster and the tree shakes like mad, as he shimmies out to the middle of the branch.

"Let yourself dangle and then drop down over the wall," I tell him.

Steeling his nerve, he unfolds himself from the branch and swoops downward, causing the branch to quiver in a most unpromising way.

"Let go!" I shout. "You're going to crack it."

"Okay, I'm working on it," Sapphire says, eyeing the ground as if it plans to leap up and beat him about the head. "Sweet Maker!" He lets go of the branch and drops over the wall, landing on the other side with an awkward thump – hopefully this doesn't mean he's broken his neck.

"How cute. You've found religion," I call, hoping for an answer.

All I get is an anguished groan, which presages that he is either gravely injured or really does not appreciate my sense of humour.

I duck to avoid another arrow and scurry out along the much-abused branch at a crouch. The guards are closing in around the trunk of the tree and I don't savour the idea of falling to my death or getting cut to ribbons, both undignified ways for me to meet the Maker. Using the branch as a springboard, I launch myself over the wall and brace my knees for a rough landing.

When I hit the ground, every bone in my body is jarred and my teeth chatter together, producing a sound like some festive soul is shaking the maracas.

Sapphire chuckles and dusts off his gardening costume, which, in all earnest, is a bit ridiculous. "You see why I'm not so keen on heights?"

"It would have been a softer landing if I'd aimed for your body."

"Perhaps not. I did hold on to my gardening shears," he notes.

We run further along the alley, cutting through a livery reeking of manure and mouldy hay. Sparrows chirp and flutter in the eaves and stable boys barely mark us as we hurry by, even though I take pleasure in jingling the carriage bells and mischievously pinching a few bums. Turning down another winding avenue, we pass perilously close to a gallows, cut through a busy square and end up in the middle of a marketplace selling fruit and bread.

I brush by a stand piled high with apples and pluck one from the pile, while the vendor's back is turned. After we've walked on a few paces, I sink my teeth into the tart fruit and enjoy the juice dripping across my lips.

Sapphire grins and holds up a pear, before treating himself to the snack. "Not a bad idea, Aranai. I usually don't opt for petty crime, but I'd say these are special circumstances."

"So...you don't go out in the field much, I take it? You're mostly an administrator, no?"

Sapphire nibbles at his pear. "I've seen my fair share of assignments."

"Truly? Fear of heights would seem to be a crippling impediment."

"Are you questioning my credentials?" Sapphire fixes me with a fierce stare, eyes narrowed into glittering points. Even when he is being indignant, I must admit that he makes a handsome woman and a very pretty man.

I answer his glare with a careless shrug. "Well, I am simply wondering if you possess the slightest concept of what a professional in my position does."

"If you must know, I operated as a player and a bard in Orlais for nine years prior to being recruited to run the show here. Mind you, until this delightful afternoon, there hasn't been much call for me to swing around in the trees like an overgrown monkey."

"Ah, I see," I say, chuckling under my breath. "So have you ever killed anyone? Directly, I mean?"

"I don't see how that is your business," Sapphire replies curtly. "Furthermore, it might be nice to get a 'thank you' considering I saved your life back there."

With a bemused shake of my head, I crunch into my apple again. "You seem to be under the mistaken impression that Nerissa would have been able to kill me. In truth, I had the situation completely under control."

"So letting her stab you was just another phase in your nefarious plan? What a cunning stratagem!"

"I will concede that you did me a good turn and I thank you for it. However, I do believe that I would have been able to extract myself from the situation working as an independent operative."

He gives me a knowing look. "Admit it: you were so dazzled by that little trollop's sweet and innocent routine you couldn't see past your own nose. You were infatuated and you let your feelings impair your judgement."

"Why, Sapphire! Are you jealous?"

"Jealous? Good heavens, no!" he scoffs. "You are an arrogant one, aren't you?"

"Because there is no need for embarrassment. People become infatuated with me all the time. It cannot be helped."

"I can assure you, Zevran Aranai, that my feelings for you – or complete, utter lack thereof - are entirely professional and that I am absolutely indifferent to the fact that you choose to flaunt your trivial flings in front of me at every opportunity."

I don't answer, but simply nod my head and munch away at my apple. I find that smug silence is often the best way to win arguments.

Sapphire continues his flustered protest. "If I happened to be on hand to save your life today, it was only because I prefer not to lose a serviceable agent. I promise you that it has nothing, and I repeat, nothing, at all to do with any personal charm which you may or may not possess."

I turn the full force of my smile upon him. "Hmm. Yes, you have convinced me."

He glances away, giving a self-righteous little sniff. "Good."

"Um, Sapphire?"

"Yes?"

"You appear to be turning a most unusual shade of red."

"I am not."

I smile agreeably. "Very well. As you say. You are not."

"This is quite - ludicrous! Do you want to speak of business or should I leave you to have your jests at my expense?"

"Ah, but you are much too serious," I reply in my most insinuating voice. "It is often nice to mingle business with pleasure, think you not?"

"I...I honestly wouldn't know," he murmurs. "Now have you done behaving in this...manner?"

"Flirting with you, you mean?" I tease. "Ah, I suppose I can take a break. For the moment."

"Thank you," he says, taking a breath to compose himself. The surprising blush lingers on his cheeks even after his voice has returned to its usual cut-and-dried tone. "Now how do we intend to eliminate this Master of Nerissa's, the one who's been working to have you killed?"

"I hadn't given the exact method much thought, what with the betrayal and the running away from guards and trying not to offend your delicate sensibilities."

"Well, perhaps you should start giving the matter some consideration," Sapphire says. "He's going to be an obstacle to your career advancement and frankly, that makes him a serious pain in the rear end for me and for the goals of this operation."

I pitch away my apple core and it rolls into the gutter. "You don't have to ask me twice. I shall derive much enjoyment from offing the fellow, believe me."

"I hope you are not treating this as a game. The stakes are too high for that." His forehead crinkles and his expression is suddenly anxious. I have to admit this comes as a surprise to me, since Sapphire's admonishments are usually of the acerbic variety, demonstrating more disdain than affection or concern for my person.

"If there are stakes, then we are gamblers. And gamblers play at games, do they not?"

"I don't like leaving things to luck, Zevran. Or to chance. It's important that you survive this. You aren't – disposable to me."

I clap a hand down on his shoulder and give it a light squeeze. "Worry not. I am a great believer in planning. It is how I have lived to this ripe old age."

"That's good to know," he says, his lips curling up into the beginnings of a smile.

"My apologies if I offended you earlier. I didn't mean to question your skill."

Sapphire looks down, his face softening. "It isn't a problem. And I do realize that I can be, well, prickly and abrupt with you sometimes...I'm not much of a people person and I don't expect that I'm always easy to work with."

"And I am?"

"Well, you can be very...good company."

I give him an amused glace. "Indeed? I am touched. I wasn't aware that you held me in such high regard."

"Well, anyway, we should attend to your business as soon as possible, I think," Sapphire replies briskly. "Come see me when you're prepared to discuss the details, alright?"

"Alright," I answer, feeling a bit dazed at the quick change of subject, but he doesn't wait for my assent. I watch him slip seamlessly back into the bustling market crowd, wading through a steady current of slow-moving shoppers.

I keep walking down the street to the Piazza di Ambrosio, a popular place to relax on hot days in the city. I sprawl out on the marble steps alongside the piazza's ancient fountain and roll up my sleeves and pant-legs to bask in the afternoon heat. The water bubbles and froths from the fanged mouths of the stone serpents, making graceful arcs over their writhing bodies. Occasionally, the fountain spray mists my face and it is delightful, like being kissed over and over by soft, cool lips.

Reaching into my pocket, I find the rose blossom I'd picked for Nerissa, its petals crushed now and blackened at the edges. I dally with the bloom, raising it to my nose and inhaling the last sweet traces of its scent, before I cast it down into the churning waters.


	12. Concerning Chainmail and Blackmail

**Elendra**

Upon our arrival at Highever, Fergus decided that we should have a joust and a feast to celebrate Ciaran's first visit. Of course, the festivities have provided much more satisfaction to the adults in the household than to the infant they were intended to honour. At the joust, the clamour of the knights' mock battles only set my poor baby to tears. The feast did not afford Ciaran much pleasure either, for he is quite toothless and does not yet share my brother's ravenous appetite for game hen and braised venison. Indeed, I have had to place the poor dear in the care of a nanny for much of this celebration and my arms are strangely empty without him cradled there, the way I used to feel when I didn't have my sword gripped in my hand.

Truth be told, when it comes to jousts, I would much prefer to contend in a tourney than dispense favours and cheer on knights to fight in my name. When I have taken delight in watching such events, it was always because Alistair was in attendance with me, providing a running commentary on the combats and whispering witty asides in my ear. As fond and as funny as it may sound, I derived the greatest enjoyment from my husband's enthusiasm for each contest, his earnest applause at a valiant feat or the way he would cringe in sympathy when an errant knight fell from his steed; I usually found his responses more entertaining than the spectacle itself. As I observed the tournament this afternoon, I caught myself casting expectant glances to my left, at the place Alistair would occupy - as if, at any moment, his voice would tickle against my ear or he'd lean over and grasp my hand, squeezing it tight during a nail-biter of a match. In his absence, I start to notice that jousts are rather absurd occasions, just a series of silly honourable men in metal suits pummelling one another for prizes

It is easier to distract myself at a feast, with a lavish table spread before me and the cheerful chatter of the guests all around. The red wine helps too, stroking warm fingers up my throat and making the candelabras stream with light as if they're shedding golden tears. Fergus is in high spirits this evening, joking and laughing with his knights, and the minstrels have launched into a rousing song driven by the beat of a tambour. Mind you, I am hitting the high point of intoxication where even dwarven music is melodious and even the most soppy lyrics can wring tears from one's eyes.

A lone knight clambers into the hall, still arrayed in his helm and armour, and Fergus gets up to greet him. "Join us! Join us, my good man! I'm sorry that you had to miss the day's festivities, but you are still in time for supper. Come, I shall introduce you to our good Queen Elendra, who also has the notable distinction of also being my sister."

I rise from the table, pleased to welcome our latest guest - until he removes his helm, revealing a face I never wished to see again. His features are handsome enough, a squared jaw, pale blue eyes and tousled hair the colour of wheat, but it takes all my resolve not to startle away from him as if he were an abomination.

Fergus smiles at me, seemingly oblivious to my horror. "Your Majesty, I would like to present to you one of my new-recruited knights, Ser Rupert. He was once a champion in West Hills, under Arl Wulff."

Ser Rupert lowers himself on bended knee and, bowing his head, grasps the trembling hand I have extended to him in greeting. "Your Highness, it is an unlooked-for honour."

I take a breath and compose myself enough to offer a reply, praying that he has not recognized me, that his memories of that slattern 'Bess' have been washed away by the ale. "I am...most pleased to make your acquaintance, ser knight. I have no doubt that you will do loyal service to Ferelden and to the Cousland house."

As Rupert rises to his feet, his eyes lock with mine and a look of conspiracy passes between us. There is no doubt left in my mind that he remembers what happened on that desperate night in the tavern. It is a dreadful knowledge and I find myself drawing my robes more tightly around my body as if his gaze might lay me bare to the world, exposing the pale, scarred flesh beneath my ermine and silk.

The next morning, I wake early to nurse Ciaran and discover a note slipped under my door. The handwriting is crabbed and vicious, its black letters scurrying across the page like spider legs.

_**Dearest Bess,**_

_**I have heard that a lady's reputation is her greatest treasure and that gold, silver and all the rubies of Orzammar are but trifles compared to it. Tell me, is this true? I should like to discover how much coin is a woman's honour worth. **_

_**Meet me in the backroom of the study after Vespers. I have a proposition that I think you would be wise to consider. **_

_**Best regards,**_

_**An Intimate Friend**._

The first time I read the note, a tremor of fear thrills down my spine. By my third perusal, I am fuming with anger. Folding the yellowed page in half, I rip it to shreds and then carefully feed each piece of paper into the fireplace. As I watch the tattered remains of the extortion note curl and blacken amidst the flames, I almost feel a twinge of pity for Ser Rupert, that galling mockery of a gallant knight. If he imagines that I can be cowed by a few vague threats, he hasn't the slightest notion of who I am or what I am capable of. I shall go to this meeting of his, in the chamber where I used to memorize lessons on the politics and history of Ferelden as a child, and my blackmailer will discover what his crude insinuations are worth.

I scoop up Ciaran, rocking him gently, and kiss the blonde wisps of hair at his forehead. He gazes up at me with wide brown eyes that seem to encompass all the world and wraps his tiny hand around my finger, his infant strength surprising me anew. Whatever may come, I shall not fail to protect him. I bestow another kiss on his little fist, as if to seal the promise.

Before my evening meeting with Rupert, I wind up wandering into the family chapel, a strange place for my feet to carry me. I am even tempted to pray, as if I might hedge my bets at this late date by bargaining with the Maker, but when I kneel down at the altar, the guise of piety feels so utterly false that I do not know how to commence. Despite my parents' best intentions, I have always been a heathen at heart, more entranced by a gust of wind shaking the treetops than by visions of Andraste or an all-powerful deity who shunned us. And when I do find myself whispering to ghosts in the night, wanting to be haunted and consoled, it is always Mother and Father who I call upon for comfort. Fergus lives in this castle, but it is their spirits that suffuse this place and their arms that I feel circling around me in times of tribulation. Before I take my leave, I light two candles in the alcove of the chapel and let the flames burn on for them and all the others, dear and departed, who were murdered through Howe's treachery. Their names and the flicker of these little fires are the only Chant of Light that I can muster.

I wend my way down the hall to the library, a room that seems to have been largely abandoned since my brother took over the estate. The collection of scrolls and leather-bound tomes has scarcely been touched and I could write my name in the thick coating of dust that lies upon the shelves. It is a sad thing to see this lovely old place go to waste, but then, Fergus has never been much of a bookworm, being too fond of active pursuits to spend his hours huddled over stacks of musty texts.

Casting a cautious glance around the library, I slip into the study and shut the door behind me.

"So, at last you come," Rupert says, his broad body outlined by the orange glow of the hearth. "I never expected to see you again, Your Majesty. Sometimes I guess golden opportunities just fall into one's lap."

I take a few steps forward, grazing my fingernails along the edge of the long mahogany table. "Golden opportunities?"

Rupert gives me a glib smile. "Come now, dear woman, don't be dense. Opportunities for gold. Most ladies I know would pay a pretty penny to have their infidelities kept strictly undercover."

"Why, Ser Rupert, I do hope you are not trying to blackmail me. For, in case you have forgotten, I am not most women."

"True enough," he answers. "You have so much more to lose."

"Yes, it's true. I have a great deal to lose. That's what makes me dangerous."

He takes a step closer to me and while his mouth is curled into a bemused smile, his narrowed eyes glint with menace. "You threaten me, then. You are a very naughty girl, indeed."

"Threaten you? No. I am simply giving you a warning."

"You think to have me murdered? After all we have shared together? I'm hurt," he says. "In any case, I plan to make it difficult for you."

I shake my head, grieved at his error. I am, by nature, a peaceable woman, one who only arranges assassinations as a last resort. "Good ser knight, you mistake me. I am not such a blunt instrument."

"Grant me an allowance of a thousand sovereigns a year and a goodly estate in the south and you shall never hear from me again," Rupert declares. "Otherwise, I shall have to tell all and sundry the tale of my midnight meeting with the Queen of Ferelden. And quite a saucy minx, she is."

I chuckle. "Why, indeed, I am. Although, I must confess: I'm surprised that you'd sell yourself so low, Rupert."

"Should I raise my offer, then?"

"Do just as you please."

"How about a title?" he persists. "I've always wanted to be a Bann."

"You are ambitious."

"I seize chances when I see them. You'd do the same."

"Oh, I certainly might blackmail someone rich and powerful if I ever really needed the coin. But I wouldn't be nearly so stupid about it."

Rupert gives a derisive snort. "Really? And how have I gone amiss? Tell me the error of my ways."

"You overestimated the power of your information. Have you any proof besides your word?"

His gaze wavers away from me and over to the far wall, his pale eyes suddenly uncertain. "My word would be enough to cast doubt on your son's birth."

"Go on, then," I dare him. "Who will you tell first? My brother, the Teyrn? My husband, the King? Will you get on your fine steed and gallop off to Denerim, to shout the news from the rooftops? I shall not oppose you."

"My lady, I would urge you to reconsider. If not for your own good, then for the sake of the infant..."

"Speak not of my son. You have nothing to do with him or with me," I snap. "Now go hence and tell your wild tale, if anyone will heed it. I tire of secrets and subterfuge."

"You realize there will be consequences if I let the truth slip out? There is a high penalty in this land for treason."

I take a step backward, grinning as I shake my head, astonished and admiring of his effrontery. "Then I shall look forward to meeting you on the gallows, Ser Rupert. Mayhap I will have the pleasure of seeing you hanged before the executioner removes my head."

This dire possibility causes the knave some hesitation. While he ponders this latest point, I take the opportunity to pounce. "You don't imagine that my son and I will be the only ones to suffer? You will be implicated too. No one likes a messenger bearing bad news."

"At the time, when we engaged in – what we did - I didn't know you were married or the bloody Queen, for Maker's sake!" Rupert protests, as if he is already pleading his case before a magistrate. "If they punished me, it would be an injustice."

"Yes, it would. But there are so many injustices in this world, aren't there? Some are born rich and others, poor. Some are gifted with wisdom and others are just unfortunate fools, who try to blackmail their betters and end up doing themselves terrible harm."

He furrows his brow and looks down at the floor, gritting his teeth together. "Perhaps...perhaps, I have made a miscalculation. What would you say to that, Your Majesty?"

"I would say that you are coming to your senses."

All of a sudden, I hear somebody coughing outside the door. I raise my hand to silence Rupert but he blunders on. "Oh, Maker, I didn't want to go through with this anyway. I've been buried in debt and I just thought that -"

I press my hand over his lips and he falls quiet. We listen to the sound of feet scuffling over the stone floor outside. There is definitely someone roaming around the library and it may be that this person has even presumed to eavesdrop on our private discourse. I wait - motionless, breathless as some poor hunted creature crouching in a copse - until the footsteps fall silent.

"You heard that?" I whisper.

"I did. You don't think they might've listened in?"

"I doubt it," I answer, feigning confidence. "In any case, I thought you planned to tell all of Thedas."

"I've changed my mind," he says, sheepishly. "Your arguments against exposure were...sufficiently convincing."

"Good. The matter is settled then," I say. "We have nothing further to discuss."

He gapes at me. "So you...?"

"And so, I would like you to leave now, ser knight."

"Right enough," he says, ambling towards the door.

I am about to breathe a sigh of relief at the man's departure when he stops short at the threshold. Rupert turns his head ever so slightly, his cheek and the jut of his brow outlined by the firelight.

"Is the child mine?"

I shake my head. "No," I tell him.

He gives me a slow, thoughtful nod and then creeps out the door, gently drawing it shut behind him.

I sit alone in the study, unsure of whether to laugh or to cry. When I believe I have waited a seemly amount of time, I extinguish the fire in the heart and then walk through the library and back to my quarters.

When I enter the guest room, I find the kindly old nanny snoring away in the rocking chair, her chin tucked against her chest. Closing the door, I tiptoe past her and lean over Ciaran's crib, gazing down at his dreaming face, eyes sealed up with slumber. I look down and I wonder.


	13. Secrets in the Blood

**Alistair **

After a week of snooping around Weisshaupt Fortress, digging for dirt on the Anders Grey Wardens, I discover one ugly truth: I am not especially good at eavesdropping, spying, seeing through clever ruses or any of the other skills that are apparently mandatory for being an intrepid investigator.

Being unable to understand more than ten words of the local dialect certainly doesn't help matters. Whenever Sigmund or one of the other Wardens in his corrupt gang might say something incriminating, they are able to simply switch over to their native tongue, leaving a trail of baffled outsiders in their wake. The beginner's phrasebook that I brought from Ferelden with the well-intentioned notion of picking up the language has proven completely useless against this tactic. Mind you, it does tell me how to comment on the weather and how to inquire about the location of the nearest chamber pot, which are handy things to know, although I doubt they're going to earn me a reputation as a brilliant conversationalist.

If I am going to uncover the unseemly business going on here, I believe that I will have to catch these Wardens in the act. This is why I've chosen to disguise myself in Cullen's armour and head out on morning patrol, a duty that it is usually the reserve of Anders Wardens and new inductees to the Order. Even if my latest escapade doesn't yield any new revelations, it's nice to be out enjoying a brisk walk instead of being cooped up in the fortress. The templar visor I'm wearing obstructs my vision, but the sights that I can make out through the narrow eye slat are spectacular: snow-capped peaks, yawning canyons that echo with a single pebble's throw and mountain ranges like the ridged backs of dragons, a misty grey-purple in the distance.

We march down the side of the glistening limestone slope that gives the famous fortress its name, moving towards the town of Weisshaupt. Sigmund, foremost among the Anders Wardens, bears the flag of our order and leads the way. He pushes our group along at a pace that leaves some of the mages gasping for breath in the thin mountain air.

When we reach the main street of Weisshaupt's village, civilians are quick to step aside and let us pass. They're a bit too quick about it, honestly, and it troubles me. I can appreciate signs of respect and reverence, because I believe that the mission of the Grey Wardens deserves both those things, but I hate the idea that our presence might encourage subservience, even terror. I don't like seeing a mother laying protective hands upon her child when we march past or noting the way the shopkeepers fold their arms over their chests, eyeing us warily from their front windows. Of course, I don't think anyone would confuse this town with Haven or even the Alienage in Denerim after the riots. In spite of the oddities I've observed, the streets bustle with life and there's prosperity here, evident in the number of smithies, bakeries and supply stores that line the market square. The villagers may fear the Wardens, but that certainly hasn't stopped them from profiting on them.

I'm surprised when we stop our patrol at a cottage near the edge of the village. It's an unobtrusive dwelling, cobbled together from granite and tin. The window shutters are closed and I wouldn't think anyone was inside if I didn't notice faint puffs of smoke billowing from a crooked chimney pipe. Sigmund hands his flag off to a tall Warden in gold armour and knocks on the front door.

An old man hobbles out of the house, followed by a youth with shaggy blond hair and the wispy beginnings of a beard. Sigmund and the Warden in gold speak with this pair in the local dialect, conducting what appears to be a negotiation.

The old man offers Sigmund a bag, which he unsmilingly accepts, weighing it in his hands. As he loosens the purse strings, I hear the jingle of coins. I cannot see how much is being offered.

However much it is, it is evidently not enough. Sigmund tosses the bag back at the man and the two Wardens direct their attention to the youth instead, ignoring the bewildered mutterings of the ancient fellow.

A woman scurries into the yard, the tail ends of her kerchief flapping in the wind. She approaches the old man and whispers something to him, her face showing great distress, although she takes care not to raise her voice.

I glance around at the other Wardens in the patrol to see how they are taking this. It is hard to make out faces underneath metal helmets, but I notice that one of the Anders mages looks disturbed. I manage to remember enough of the language to ask him what's going on.

He gives me a startled look and for a moment I wonder if I've accidentally said something obscene. "Verstärkung," he whispers.

Blast! Where's that phrasebook when I need it?

"Ich verstehe nicht," I say. "I don't understand."

Before whispering an answer, he casts a glance towards Sigmund, who is turned away. "Not enough coin. They go to make boy Warden."

I look back at the scene playing out before me and the pieces fall into place: the upset woman, the old man's despair, the boy's attempt to put on a brave face in spite of his agitation and the fact that he is obviously not a trained fighter. When I see the wolfish smile on Sigmund's face as he speaks to the boy, no doubt telling him the fate that awaits him as a Grey Warden, explaining it as if it were a punishment, a sort of slavery, I feel blood pulsing my temples. I step out of ranks and realize a second too late that I'm about to do something impetuous – and, no doubt, something very, very foolish.

"Care to explain what you're doing? I thought we were out here looking for darkspawn."

Sigmund turns around. "Krüziturken! I care not to explain anything to you, soldier. Now get back in the bloody ranks."

He lifts his arm as if to strike me, but before he can make contact, I slam my elbow into his jaw. He reels back a step, a bloody gash on his chin where the edge of my gauntlet has cut him.

"I'm not your cur," I tell him. "Don't try to hit me again."

The Warden in gold draws his sword to attack me, but I'm already struggling against two of his compatriots, who have managed to grab me from behind.

I bash one of my attackers with my shoulder, knocking him back, but the other catches my sword arm, twisting it around at angle that threatens to crack the bone like a breadstick. The gold-armoured Warden grins at me, raking the point of his sword down my throat and along my chestplate.

Someone reaches up and pries the templar's visor off my head. Underneath the metal helmet, my hair is damp and drops of sweat bead down my forehead.

I glare at Sigmund and then look back at the other Wardens on patrol, hoping to find supporters – someone, anyone, who will help me stand up for what is right, but even the mage I spoke to earlier seems intent on avoiding my gaze.

"What you're doing here is a disgrace," I tell Sigmund. "I'm not going to stand idly by while you debase everything the Grey Wardens stand for."

"And what do the Grey Wardens stand for? You've mistaken us for Chantry Sisters, I think," Sigmund replies. "We have an understanding with the people here, Your Majesty. We protect them from darkspawn and from bandits, we buy their wares and in turn, they pay their dues. If they can't pay, then we recruit. It is a good arrangement for all."

"The Joining isn't a punishment. The Grey Wardens are supposed to –"

"To slaughter darkspawn. To be vigilant. To stop Blights," he says. "And we do. Having men and coin is helpful in this, yes?"

"You terrorize these people. You and your cronies, you're a bloody menace."

Sigmund chuckles. "Maybe. But better than darkspawn."

"That's not what I'd call a glowing endorsement," I reply. "So what are you going to do? Murder me? Because I'm not going to let you take that boy against his will."

"It's not against his will." Sigmund turns towards the youth and says something in Anders.

The boy's blue eyes grow large and frightened, but his face remains solemn, his mouth set in a firm line. "I become Warden," he says slowly, grappling with the unfamiliar sounds of the common tongue. "I join." He glances back at Sigmund and the warden favours him with a smile.

"You see? His choice."

"I'd be a lot more likely to believe that if I didn't see you threatening his family."

"You know, it is very rude to come to another country and interrupt our way of doing things," Sigmund replies. "You may be king in Ferelden, but here, you are just a visitor. You would be wise to remember that."

The Warden in gold mutters something in Anders, which provokes a few snickers.

"What did he just say?" I demand.

Sigmund shrugs, an affable smile on his face. "He says you're the follower of the Fereldan woman who behaves as a man, who slays the archdemon."

"Bloody right, I am. And proud of it too. Following her is a sight better than playing lackey for a thug like you, who spends his time scaring children and old men. "

"I wouldn't expect you to understand our requirements," Sigmund says. "So little you Fereldans know of the world, of how we must get things done."

"Let the boy go. If it's money you want, I'll pay you the bloody tax on his behalf."

Sigmund laughs. "You care so much, I let him be. Consider it a present, from me to you. For the sake of foreign relations."

"I consider it the right thing to do. He's a child."

"Once we were all the little children. It means nothing," Sigmund answers. "But, just as you wish it, Your Majesty...Hm, it is funny, isn't it, how a king claims to be a Grey Warden?"

"I am a Grey Warden. And much more of a Grey Warden than you."

"I think there are some who would argue that."

"And they would be wrong."

Sigmund gestures to his followers and the pressure eases off my arm, although it continues to throb with pain. The Warden in gold hands me my visor and makes his retreat, smirking and giving me a courtly bow as he goes. I would dearly love to get the fellow alone and beat the sod out of him, but at the moment, I suspect it's an impulse I won't get to indulge. My righteous indignation has already gotten me into a heap of trouble today.

"I suggest you leave," Sigmund says. "On this patrol, you are not welcome, Alistair, Fereldan king."

"Very well. But I will be watching this house until you leave."

"Watch all you want. Our work is done here."

As soon as Sigmund and the patrol have turned their backs on the cottage, the woman hurries over to the boy and embraces him. The old man remains watchful, defeat lingering in his hazy eyes, in the deep lines of his weather-beaten face, in his rounded shoulders. He gives me a wary look, one that, try as I might, I cannot quite interpret as thanks, and then the family returns to the house.

I stand guard at the door, wondering if, in my crusading zeal, I have only made things worse. The Anders Wardens may not return today, but there's no saying what will happen when I must leave this place. I start to wonder what Elendra would do if she were in my place, how she would manage this. She'd have controlled herself, that's for sure, rather than getting all riled up and barrelling into the situation, like a ham-fisted idiot. Before she acted, she would have figured out who her allies were and how much support she could expect from them. She would have sabotaged Sigmund, doing everything she could to ensure his defeat, before she even confronted him. Those tactics sometimes give me pause, sometimes seem unscrupulous - but, dear Maker, they can be useful, especially when one faces opponents who don't trouble themselves with exalted notions of honour or fair play. In other words, most people we've had to fight.

I make the trek up the mountain, returning to the fortress and a very displeased Fiona. She accosts me as I hurry back towards my quarters, her Orlesian accent much more pronounced when she is angry.

"Are you insane?" she hisses. "I told you..."

I stride past her. "Going to have it out with me, too? It seems to be the theme of the day."

She struggles to catch up with me, her voice a harsh whisper. "You have no idea what you've done. You're throwing stones at a wasps' nest. Do you think that will pass without consequence?"

"No, I don't, but I'm willing to face the consequences. Someone has to take a stand on this. What they're doing – it's reprehensible."

I take the key from my belt and unlock the door to my guestroom.

"It's the way they've recruited for centuries," Fiona says. "And it isn't going to change, because one day a Fereldan king comes and throws a royal tantrum."

I step into my room and turn to face her, my body barring the entrance. "And what would you have me do? I'm not going to stand silent while they turn the Grey Wardens into something I despise."

"You take after your father," she replies. "He was never good at compromise."

I study her sharp features, trying to discern whether she is bluffing or having a joke at my expense. "You knew Maric?"

Fiona nods. "I travelled with him for a brief while, a long time ago."

"I guess you weren't too fond of him – what with him being so much like me and all."

"You assume too much," she murmurs. "But we should discuss this in privacy. May I come in?"

Stepping back from the door, I allow my guest to enter. I set the templar visor down on the cabinet with a sigh. "It's okay. You can speak honestly. I stopped pretending Maric was some wonderful hero a long time ago."

"You're wrong. Maric was wonderful. He was a hero," she says. "He was also capable of thoughtless cruelty, of incredible blindness, of doing much damage, especially to those he loved. But that's true of many people."

"I suppose so," I answer, my thoughts turning back to Denerim.

"Did you ever meet him?"

"I saw him once, but I don't think he saw me. For the best, really. I expect it would have awkward."

"I can't say I ever knew his mind, but it may be that he wanted to protect you. The games of politics, they can do terrible things to children."

"Well, no reason to dredge up old history. I mean, it didn't leave me with a very flattering impression of him, as a human being, but I'm sure he had his good points."

She looks pensive, her dark eyes glimmering. "You were one of Duncan's recruits. I thought he might tell you some things about your father."

"You seem to know an awful lot about me. You're acquainted with Duncan too, then?"

Fiona nods. "Yes, of course. We came to Fereldan together, from Orlais."

Duncan was an Orlesian? I always thought he spoke the language with a suspiciously good accent, but it never occurred to me that it might be his mother tongue. As much as I want to believe that he respected me as a brother-in-arms and trusted me as a friend, he never confided his past to me.

There is a knock at the door outside and I walk over to answer it, still baffled by these latest revelations. I discover a dwarf attired in yellow leggings, a shiny blue doublet and an enormous ruff. His helmet resembles a fancy gold chamber pot.

I gape at this unexpected visitor, completely at a loss.

"Your Majesty, I bring news!" the dwarf proclaims. He raises a small trumpet to his lips and tootles an underwhelming fanfare. "It is my glad duty and highest honour to inform you that your son and heir, Ciaran, Prince of Ferelden, Lord Master of Highever, Gwaren and the Brecilian, Regent of the Waking Sea and the peerless Amaranthine, Conqueror of the mighty Frostbacks..."

I interrupt the endless barrage of titles, the intensity of my voice startling the officious dwarf. "My child?! I have - a son? Is he healthy? My wife – is she alright?"

"The Prince thrives, Sire, the Queen prospers and the good people of Ferelden rejoice at these wondrous tidings of–"

"Thank you!" I grasp the messenger's hand and wring it up and down, perhaps a bit too forcefully, for I think I may have caused the poor pompous fellow to bite his tongue. I suppose kings aren't really supposed to shake hands, but under the circumstances, I think I can be forgiven for acting a bit daft. "Have you any letters for me?"

The dwarf reaches into a velvet bag and plucks out a fistful of envelopes. "Two items of correspondence from Her Majesty, the Queen, one from His Lordship, the Arl of Redcliffe and others from..."

"Very good," I reply, seizing the letters. "Bide a moment. I will reward you for this service..." Brushing past a dazed Fiona, I go to the chest by my bed and rummage around, seeking sovereigns for the messenger.

"My liege, you are magnanimous, the very model of noble beneficence, but I have already received bountiful payment for my humble efforts and indeed, it is a privilege to convey..."

"Here. Take this and my thanks," I say, pressing the coins into his hand. "Now get yourself some food and a place to rest. You must be exhausted from all that shameless flattery."

For a moment, I think the puffed-up dwarf may protest for propriety's sake, but even he has the good sense to swallow his objection and pocket the sovereigns. "As you wish, Your Majesty. Thank you, Sire." He scampers away, his footfalls light against the marble floors.

Fiona tilts her head to the side, regarding me with an inquisitive, sparrow-like expression that makes her seem much younger than her years. "You have a son. And you look just as a new father should."

"Proud?"

"Terrified," she says, laughing.

"And I'm right to be scared. I don't want to mess this one up."

"You want to know the best way to mess up being a parent?"

"What?"

"Not being there at all," she answers.

I nod and crack a bit of a smile, in spite of myself. "Right."

"You should go back to Ferelden. There's little more you can do here and your family needs you."

"Yes. You're right. It just - it makes me angry to see Grey Wardens act like a gang of bullies. I want to do something."

"In Ferelden, you have the power to do many good things, to help your kingdom and to improve the Wardens," Fiona replies. "You cannot accomplish such things at Weisshaupt. You are in danger here already, for speaking against Sigmund."

"He extorts money. He terrorizes the village people..."

"People who chose to live at Weisshaupt and benefit from the Wardens' protection, knowing full well that there would be a price."

"I don't understand it. Why would they subject themselves to something so terrible?"

"Listen to me this time," she says. "Go home and see your child. Be happy, rule wisely and serve your people well. In this world, there are some dragons that can't be slain."

"Thank you, Fiona. You've been very kind."

It comes as a surprise when she hugs me, pressing her cheek against my bronze chestplate. She's a dainty little person but she has quite a powerful grip and without my armour, I think she might've crushed a few of my ribs. I put my arms around her too and give her a gentle squeeze. It's a bit odd embracing a stranger, but it's a nice feeling too, a comfort amidst the cold majesty of Weisshaupt.

"Go home," Fiona says, easing back from me. "Have a safe journey. "

I make the necessary arrangements and the next day, Cullen and I start our journey back along the great Tevinter highway, towards Nevarra. It's not until we've set down camp for the night that Cullen hands me the package.

"The elven mage, she told me to pass this along to you."

"Fiona?" I ask.

"Yes, that's her," Cullen says, dipping a chunk of bread into his stew. "If it's a spell or something wicked, I hope you'll have the good sense to burn it, eh?"

I chuckle. "If it were a spell, she wouldn't give it me. I'm about as magical as an old boot."

Breaking open the wax seal, I open the envelope and find pieces of musty yellow parchment. I squint at handwriting on the parchment, trying to make out letters and words from the loops and swoops and slashes of black ink.

_My dear Fiona,_

_I hope that you had a safe return to Weisshaupt and that you've found happiness in your duties among the Grey Wardens. I am learning to take solace in my own work, although I have always been an avid adventurer and a reluctant king. It is good to be among my people and to watch Cailan grow into a cheerful, headstrong boy, although I sometimes find myself wondering what could have been, had we chosen another path. Just know that I miss the warmth of your smile, your delicate hands and the careless way you brush your hair back from your eyes. Please remember that, once upon a time, in a distant realm, there was a man who loved you - he will never cease to care for you, no matter how far you roam. _

_I have arranged for our son to be raised on the estate of my brother-in-law, Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe. I trust that this will keep him away from politics and all dreadful trouble that goes with it, just as you desired. As you know all too well, it is a painful thing to give up a child and it grieved me to send him away. I can assure you that Eamon is a worthy man and I believe that he will ensure young Alistair receives a proper education and finds an honourable vocation. _

_I think that I will have to stay away from Redcliffe, as far away as I can, because I am already tempted to meddle in the child's life and I know that surrendering to such impulses can only cause complications. What policy should I take in this matter? What course do you recommend? If you wish it, I will report Alistair's progress to you whenever I receive news from Eamon. _

_Sincerely,_

_Maric_

The words get hazy and I realize that my eyes are clouded with tears. I blink them away, folding up the letter and tucking it back into the package with the others. It is too much to process right now. There is too much to know.

Cullen stops stuffing his face with bread for a few seconds. For a templar, he has dreadful table manners. "So? What is it?"

"Family history."

"You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Seen a ghost? No."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. I'm just fine," I answer. "After all, it won't be long 'til we're back in good old muddy Ferelden, where everything smells like wet dog, just as it should. That'll be reassuring, won't it? There really is no place like home."


	14. Vengeance is Mine, Sayeth the Crow

**Zevran**

I do so enjoy my visits to the Chantry here in Antiva City. The place is magnificent and macabre, a palace and a sepulchre in one building. Crimson carpets line the narrow aisles and only the faintest streaks of sunlight penetrate the stained glass windows. Over the altar, there is a ghastly fresco of Andraste getting flambéed by a troop of Tevinter soldiers. The unfortunate lady casts a doleful glance to the heavens, while the merciful Maferath prepares to poke a sword in her to see if she's nicely roasted. A host of abominations and demons caper around them, making evil look like a tremendous amount of fun.

I slide open the confessional door and enter the side of the booth where the Chantry sisters usually sit, waiting to hear penitent sinners. With its varnished oak walls and soft velvet lining, the confessional reminds me of a very luxurious coffin. This is quite appropriate, since I plan to stow a corpse here.

This afternoon I will be hearing confessions, subbing in for a slothful Chantry sister who's been caught napping on the job. Of course, I can't cast too much blame upon the poor woman; Sapphire dosed her with a sleeping draught that would have felled an ogre. I'm relieved that the potion worked, as I need to be in the confessional when Master Ferdinand arrives and I wouldn't have taken much pleasure in holding a member of the clergy captive. Even we wicked Crows have standards.

I hear heavy feet padding down the carpeted aisle. Someone opens the door on the other side of the confessional and slips inside.

Readying my crossbow, I peek through the narrow screen in the wall. Instead of Ferdinand, I see an ancient dowager attired in frothy black lace. Her rouge has bled into the fine wrinkles around her lips and makes her appears both clownish and menacing.

"Bless me, Maker, for I have sinned," she croaks. "It has been two days since my last confession."

I have trouble containing my laughter. "Two days?! My dear lady, what sins can you have possibly concocted in two days?"

"You don't sound like Sister Aemilia."

"I'm Sister Beatrice," I answer in artful falsetto. "The new sister. From Ferelden. Far, far away."

"Ah. I see." She seems ready enough to believe that women from the exotic land of Ferelden have mannish voices and peevish manners.

"What do you wish to confess before the Maker?"

I come to regret the question, for, as it turns out, the old biddy has a great deal to confess. She has entertained lustful thoughts about the grocer, snuck sips of brandy from the liquor cabinet, maliciously poked holes in her daughter-in-law's stockings, read frivolous poetry and picked arguments with the maid. When I imagine that she must be nearing an end, the lady insists that are still many more sins left for her to chronicle and I am left to wonder how she can remember so many trivial vices. During my own annual visit to confession, I usually just list off the number of people I have killed, count out the lovers I have bedded, describe any acts that were especially debauched, deviant or entertaining, and call it a day. After all, if I were to be really thorough about it, I'd occupy so much time confessing that I wouldn't have any time left to be wicked.

I heave out a martyred sigh that would do the blessed Andraste proud. "Are you done confessing yet?"

"No, no, I just need to remember one more thing..."

"If you have forgotten it, I doubt it will trouble the Maker," I tell her. "Go forth and say three verses from the Chant of Light and...um, don't return until your sins are more amusing. Go do something filthy and get it out of your system. You are absolved in Andraste's holy name."

"But –"

"Be blessed now!"

"Wait, I remem-"

"Amen!" I slam the screen shut and mutter a few blasphemies under my breath. I am relieved when I hear the ancient lady shut the door and hobble away.

I do hope that Ferdinand will arrive soon. He always visits confession at this hour and it would be a cruel jest of fortune if he were to become impious now, when I'm relying on his religious habits to work my revenge. I hear the noon bells clanging and my stomach churns with hunger. Oh, if only I had packed a snack, something light and tasty to nibble on, since Ferdinand is taking his sweet time to come and meet his demise.

When the confessional door finally opens, I'm engaged in a gluttonous fantasy involving olives, ham, capers and many, many dainty pastries and barely notice that I have a guest. It's Ferdinand's voice that jars me back to reality, a smooth, insinuating voice that trickles into one's ear like drops of poison from a metal siphon.

"Bless me, Maker, for I have sinned..."

I open the screen and raise my crossbow, pointing it at the crease between Ferdinand's eyebrows. "You won't find forgiveness here."

He conceals his anxiety with a raspy chuckle. "Ambushing me in the Chantry, Zevran? That's in very poor taste, don't you think?"

"Whatever works," I say. "So, do you have anything to confess?"

"Well, I will admit that you're more resourceful than I thought. Perhaps I was wrong about you. You might make a decent ally."

"I'm not here to bargain with you."

Ferdinand chuckles and the edges of his brown eyes crinkle with what a stranger might mistake for good humour. "Then why haven't you shot me? What are you waiting for?"

"I'm not sure. Some famous last words? I hoped that you would go out with a little style."

"You're afraid to pull that trigger, Zevran," he says. "Since you were a child, you've been afraid of me. You always had good instincts."

"I hope you're not going to beg for your life now. That would grow tiresome."

"Do you remember that time I had my apprentices stretch you on the rack? I can still remember the noise of your arm popping out of the socket. Such a funny sound. And how you howled!"

I nod. "Yes, I remember. I remember Rina too, and what you said to me after she died. Do you recall the words?"

"No. Why don't you refresh my memory?"

"You said, 'Her life didn't matter. Her death doesn't either.' Does that ring a bell?"

"Vaguely. Are you coming to a point?"

"My point is simple, Ferdinand. Your life doesn't matter," I say. "Your death won't either."

I press the trigger. Ferdinand tries to duck the shot, lifting his arms as if he might deflect the bolt, but at such close range, there is no reaction time, no escape. The bolt pierces his cheek, driving upward into his skull. The next shot slices into his throat, pinning him to the confessional wall.

Before I leave, I pry the Crow signet ring from Ferdinand's clammy hand and collect all the coins from his purse. They make a lovely jingle in my pockets. With any luck, I'll remember to repent this deed the next time I go to confession.

I stroll out of the Chantry, nearly bumping into a buxom young Sister at the doors. Blushing, she casts her eyes downward and scurries away into the shadows. My eyes have grown accustomed to the gloom and the afternoon sun dazzles me. It is good to be in the light of the day again, to rest secure in the knowledge that my deadly work is done...at least, for a little while.

When I return to The Queen's Garter, Sapphire has already broken into a bottle of wine. Her lips are painted a ravishing red and she's dressed to kill, which is fitting, considering recent circumstances.

"You finished him?" she asks.

"Before Ferdinand had even begun," I reply.

"Well, then, all hail, the King of Crows. It won't be long until you run the place, you know."

I smile, raking a hand through my hair. "I have a lot of changes in mind. Mostly redecorating. The palazzo will need some leather armchairs."

"I hope you plan to stick to your end of the bargain," she says. "Ferelden needs an ally like you, Zevran."

"Worry not. I am as loyal as they come."

"Just so long as you don't have to die for it."

"Exactly," I say. "You see? We understand each other so very well."

Sapphire gives a full-throated laugh and pours me a chalice of wine. "I hope you don't mind dreadful merlot. I should have known better than to set up headquarters in the second-worst brothel in Antiva. The atmosphere is wonderful, but the house wine is like bloody vinegar."

I gingerly pick up the chalice and sniff the stuff. "An enticing bouquet of tart blackberries and lavender, overlaid with a whiff of rat urine and just a hint of wet dog."

"Reminds me a bit of Denerim," Sapphire says. She raises her glass. "In any case, I propose a toast on this felicitous occasion. To new beginnings, perhaps?"

"Or, maybe, to happy endings," I say. "The kind that only an assassin can provide."

Our glasses clink together. I take a good, long draught of the very bad wine and savour every drop.


	15. State of the Union

**Elendra**

I am negotiating with emissaries from the Dalish elves when my secretary, Derrick, creeps into the room and passes me a slip of paper folded into quarters. Concealing the note under the table ledge, I open it while I listen to the speakers, trying to nod at all the appropriate intervals. There are eight words hastily scrawled on the page, just enough to form a single sentence. I read over the sentence twice, as if the letters might re-arrange themselves, revealing new and terrible meanings or as if they might grow legs and skitter off the page. The note reads: _His Majesty's carriage is on the Imperial Highway. _

As soon as I've processed the information, I bolt up from the table, my chair scraping over the floor and nearly toppling over. It's hardly an example of regal carriage or good etiquette, but hopefully my guests will forgive me the occasional breach of protocol. Actually, I'm beginning to believe that it gratifies people to see a leader act out of turn every so often. It reassures them there is a human being hidden under the stiff, regal clothing, someone who sometimes stutters upon a measured speech or finds herself tempted to slide down a banister.

"I'm sorry. Would it be possible to reconvene this meeting tomorrow? I've just been informed of something rather... urgent and I think I may need to go."

The elves exchange wary looks, probably wondering what the crazy Shem Queen is up to. At last, one of the women, a Keeper named Marriya, nods her assent. I choose to interpret this as a sign of consensus.

I glance over at Derrick. "I'll need a carriage. Can it be arranged?"

He bites his lower lip and folds his hands behind his back, his brow furrowing. "Um, well, the Royal Livery is currently undergoing maintenance, Your Majesty. You will recall ordering some repairs? It should reopen tomorrow."

"Which will be too late. That is a quandary, isn't it?" It takes a marked effort to keep my voice level and avoid showing my impatience. Derrick is an honest, painstaking fellow and he does not deserve my ill temper.

"Perhaps we could rent a coach for the day?"

I give him an incredulous look, one that I know is a touch too caustic. "A musty old rental coach? The kind that smells of mothballs?"

"They're not all that terrible..." he says doubtfully.

"Perhaps not, but I'd like to show a sense of occasion. This sort of thing doesn't happen every day."

I turn back to the contingent of elves, an apologetic grin working its way across my face. "I don't suppose I could borrow an aravel?"

It was intended as a joke, a way of lightening the mood - but what do you know? One of them says yes.

It would appear that my friendship with Lanaya has certain fringe benefits. The aravel comes with a pair of lithe, elegant halla, a billowing gold sail and all the trimmings. And while I haven't the least idea how to drive the complicated contraption, Vitoris, the Keeper of the Arasshtla'a clan, is kind enough to take the reins, driving Ciaran and me out of the city and along the Imperial Highway.

Much of the time, the ship rolls along the road, but there are moments when the wind picks up, the halla become restless and suddenly, the aravel glides through the air. When we rise from the ground, I gasp and clutch Ciaran so tightly my knuckles turn white and the poor boy squirms in my arms. The ship dallies in the breeze like a dandelion wisp.

"This is brilliant," I murmur.

"It's better in the forest," Vitoris says. "The wind in the trees helps to keep the ships afloat. You go higher."

"What sort of magic are you using?"

The elf smiles, the purple markings dotted across his cheeks shifting into a new pattern. "My apologies, Your Majesty, but those are clan secrets. Carefully guarded."

When the breeze wanes, the ship lowers to the ground and the halla prance along the old stone roads, drawing incredulous stares from all we pass. I joggle Ciaran on my knee and point out the passing farms, oxen grazing in the pastures, the rocky hillsides where moss and ivy cling. I remember this landscape under the Blight, when the crops withered, the fields swarmed with scavenger birds and the only travellers one encountered were looters or refugees fleeing from razed villages. I am glad that my son will never see such terrors visited upon these lands.

We spot Alistair's carriage teetering along a worn stretch of road. When I call out to the coachman, the carriage draws to an abrupt halt and the driver gazes up at the aravel with a look of disbelief and confusion. Perhaps he thinks I've lost my mind and abdicated my crown, to go frolicking through the Brecilian Forest in my small clothes, communing with the trees and the birds and the bees. That might be a great deal of fun, but anyone who really knows me is well aware that I don't fancy sleeping on wet grass or going pee behind bushes. I'm a strong advocate for cushions and lavatories.

The carriage door opens and Alistair pokes his head out, blinking dazedly into the sunlight. The breeze ruffles his ginger hair and he rubs his sleepy eyes with the backs of his hands. He must have been dozing during the carriage ride – he has the enviable talent of being able to sleep through almost anything: ballista fire, long-winded speeches, even Orzammar concerts with lots of drunken dwarven caterwauling.

"What's the matter?" he mumbles. "Why are we stopped -? "

It's only then that he sees me perched in the front seat of the aravel, with Ciaran in my lap. He looks startled, so flustered that he stumbles on the way out of the carriage. "Len! I – I wasn't expecting you to..."

I attempt a carefree smile, although I'm starting to wonder if rushing out to greet him was such a good idea after all. It would have been wiser, perhaps, to conceal my eagerness, to wait until I knew his heart and could better understand his intentions towards me. Perhaps I have unnerved him and embarrassed myself.

"Welcome home," I say.

"It's good to be here," he replies. "You always knew how to make a grand entrance. The land ship is a nice touch."

I nod my head in Vitoris' direction. "It's on loan. Vitoris, Keeper of the Arasshtla'a was kind enough to offer me a ride."

While Alistair thanks Vitoris, I attempt a stately descent from the aravel with Ciaran in tow. I want to appear graceful but it's harder to manage than I expected and I don't want to end up dropping my poor baby into the road. He wriggles in his blanket, squidging up his wide brown eyes and puffing out his cheeks, already annoyed at the way I'm jostling him around.

"Let me assist you, my dear."

Alistair's hands encircle my waist, easing me down to the road. I'd forgotten how gentle he can be in his strength, how careful he is when he touches me, as if I am something fragile and infinitely precious rather than a scarred brawler, a lifelong tomboy who's had more than her fair share of cuts and bruises.

He glances at my face, perhaps noting how I have changed – my dishevelled curls, the weary shadows around my eyes, the faint creases that bracket my lips when I smile and linger longer than I would like - and then he peers down at Ciaran. The child stares up in wonderment at the broad, handsome face looming over him, the calloused hand that strokes his wispy blond hair.

"I suppose some introductions are in order," I say. "This is Ciaran."

"He's beautiful. But I guess you're not supposed to say that about a boy."

I laugh. "I don't think he minds. Besides, he is. Beautiful."

"How have you been? You're looking well."

"I've managed. I've missed you. Ciaran has, too, I think, although he doesn't quite realize it yet."

"I thought about you - about you both - every hour of every day. I know that I've missed a lot. I'm going to have a great deal of catching up to do."

"How was Weisshaupt?" I ask. "Was it as impressive as they say? Did you like it there?"

"I wouldn't recommend it to tourists. It was rather..."

He is about to complete his sentence when Cullen comes tripping out of the carriage. He looks surprisingly meek without his templar armour and a bit embarrassed, like a tortoise caught without its shell.

"Hello."

"Elendra, you remember Cullen?" Alistair says. "He's a Grey Warden now. He'll be supporting the order at Amaranthine."

"Yes, I remember."

I met Cullen under memorable circumstances, after all, what with abominations and desire demons taking over the Tower, turning hapless templars into their thralls and redecorating the place in grisly style with mounds of flesh and piles of entrails. Cullen's mental state seems to have improved since that last encounter, although he still seems a trifle unhinged. I think he must be one of those nervous, overeager people who are prone to fidgeting and bouts of enthusiastic clumsiness. Even when he's standing still, he gives the impression that he is making a tremendous effort not to twitch or sneeze or scratch the back of his neck.

"It's good to meet you again," Cullen says. "In improved conditions. I know we didn't get off on the right footing."

"I'm glad to see you well, Cullen. The Wardens in Amaranthine will be lucky to have you."

Alistair places his hand on the baby's shoulder. I'd forgotten the tiny freckles that dapple the backs of his hands. His skin has a warm glow, as if he lives in a world where it is always summer.

"Cullen, this is my son," he says. "My son, Ciaran."

Those are good words to hear, ones that I am grateful for, and yet in my relief, there is a measure of guilt. I know how hard it is for him to speak them, acknowledging the child despite his uncertainty and indeed, my own. He accused me once of treating him as if he were Cailan, of thinking him a fool. I have never believed that. Perhaps it would be better, easier, if he was flighty and ignorant as his half-brother was, if he could be satisfied with being a woman's glorious puppet, dressing up in heroic costumes, having silly affairs, being a mock Maric. But I cannot deceive Alistair. He knows better and yet he has had to participate in the lie – that's the terrible part, the part that shames me.

"Would you like to hold him?" I ask.

Alistair appears nervous, awkward, but he agrees, holding his hands out like he's going to heft a sack of potatoes. I ease Ciaran into his arms, ensuring that he has a good grip on the baby's back. Sometimes the silly boy likes to flop over and kick his feet, as if he believes he might go swimming through the air. It wouldn't do to have him pull this stunt with Alistair, who is still more comfortable dealing with temperamental mages and bloodthirsty ogres than naughty children.

As it turns out, my worries are unfounded. Ciaran conducts himself beautifully. It pleases me to see him behaving better for his father than he often does for me, as if he is aware that he is being admired and wants to show himself to full advantage. He gives Alistair a wide, gummy smile, showing off his three new teeth.

"Hello, there," Alistair murmurs. "Aren't you a little charmer?"

He turns to Cullen. "Are you noting the family resemblance? We Theirins are handsome devils, you know. "

"Yes, I see the resemblance. Particularly with the drooling and the oversized head."

I have trouble not chuckling at Cullen's blunt assessment. Perhaps the fellow has more in him than I assumed. It's nice to see that Alistair hasn't taken to surrounding himself with sycophants and flatterers. He has always been such a good sport about teasing and his easygoing nature makes him an irresistible whetstone for people seeking to sharpen their wits.

"Hey now! I could have you sent to the Tower for such comments!" Alistair fires back. He grins at Ciaran, shaking his head in mock indignation. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with your noggin, is there? Noooo. Nothing at all. It's just the perfect size."

The ride back to Denerim is pleasant enough, although there are few opportunities to reconnect with my husband or discuss the state of our union. With Cullen around, conversation centers on travel experiences, the sights and sounds of Nevarra and the Anderfels, places that I've never seen, but hope to visit one day, perhaps on diplomatic missions.

Ciaran has attached himself to Alistair with the wonderful instinct that children have for identifying the parent who'll let them get away with murder. He tugs at the poor man's hair, prods the tip of his nose with his little thumb, drums his feet against his stomach, but Alistair just laughs and endures the punishment. It tickles me to watch the two of them making faces at each other or to eavesdrop on Alistair conducting one-sided discourses with the infant, who responds with only chirps and giggles and nonsense syllables.

I'm loath to admit it, but it reminds me a little of the funny talks Alistair used to have with my Mabari, Fidelis, while we were travelling. I believe he knew that I was listening in and so he'd make ridiculous assertions calculated to rile me or jest with the creature until it snapped its jaws at him and I'd be forced to come to his defence. We were both barely more than youths then, thrown into a dire and nigh-on hopeless situation, both frightened out of our wits and yet even more terrified to confess our fears. I played at being brave, but it was his light-hearted charm that diffused the tension. It allowed me to pretend I was older and more important than I was, a seasoned leader rather than a foolhardy girl wearing borrowed armour. People act as if I am the Hero of Ferelden, but so much of it was his doing, the product of his steadfastness and resolve.

It is almost a relief to be in company, because I fear what may happen when Alistair and I are finally alone and must find a new way of relating to one another. Our lives have altered, irrevocably, and there is no way of going back or of undoing the painful distance we have suffered, the mountains and the sea that separated our bodies, but also the differences in ideals and in temperament that have kept us from true understanding. It would be wonderful if I could simply fix what is wrong - bind the whole matter up with bandage and splint and make our love set like a broken limb – but it is not so easy. It is a problem out of my control or my powers of healing and so I may only wait, with ardent hope, to learn if he can still love me.


	16. Though Stung with a Hundred Arrows

**Alistair**

I have missed so many changes in my self-imposed exile. These days, Denerim looks like a whole new city, with white sandstone walls replacing many of the granite ones, old battlements that were dashed to rubble during the final battle against the archdemon. Trade has picked up again and even the Alienage seems to have acquired a more prosperous look, although that may just be the fresh coat of paint on the wooden gates.

Townsfolk gather at the sides of the street to watch our carriage pass, with the smallest of the children scrambling to the front or viewing the scene from astride their fathers' shoulders. On a day like this, it's so easy to please them – we just have to smile and wave out the windows. I wish everything about royal life were so simple, so innocent.

My son sits on my lap, his head resting against my chest. My son – it's still hard to believe that Elendra is a mother and I am a father, that our lives are knotted together in this wonderful, mysterious little person who is still too busy absorbing the marvel of this world to be bothered with worries about how to live in it.

Ciaran. He is just a baby but I can already tell that he's going to be rambunctious, the sort of child who tries to run before he can walk. His hair is straight and fair like mine, but he has Len's eyes, dark and lively with a thick fringe of lashes.

Ciaran will look at me with those lovely, inquisitive eyes, but Elendra is careful not to be caught at it. Instead, she trains her gaze on Cullen and quizzes him about the storied dragon slayers of Nevarra and regional politics in the Anderfels, subjects which the poor fellow knows next to nothing about. The more general and vague Cullen's responses, the more Len pumps him for information, as if he is simply feigning ignorance out of stubbornness, because he wants to get one over on her. She suffers the fatal curse of the insufferably clever: the assumption that everyone else is just as curious and quick-witted as she is, and the unshakeable belief that dullness exists only to frustrate and tease her.

It's one of her idiosyncrasies, as charming and as maddening as the way she curls her hair around her fingers or toys with her jewellery when she is anxious. She is indulging in both these habits today. I suppose that my nearness makes her nervous, that my hand upon her waist made her heart jump, just as the sound of her voice makes my pulse flutter in my neck.

When we arrive at the Palace, the whole place is abuzz with people and I am borne away by a crowd of well-wishers, advisors, guards and petitioners. I discover that there is going to be a banquet in the Great Hall in honour of my return, that there will be food and minstrels and dancing. The food sounds pleasant enough but the dancing is a particularly alarming development. Despite my dancing master's best efforts, I perform fashionable court dances like the allemande and the pavon with leaden feet and a grim-faced determination not to humiliate myself until the music is over.

Of course, everyone is in a tizzy about preparations for this party, as if I will have them all exiled if they don't hang precisely the right number of garlands or should fail to produce a six-layer chocolate cake for the head table. I would prefer to spend the evening getting re-acquainted with my family, but the courtiers seem intent on using my arrival as excuse to make merry and tumble the maids, so I shall have to play along, I think. It's only fair to give them a chance at their festivities, since there has been a great deal of hardship since the Blight and few occasions for unbridled fun or frivolity.

They get the Great Hall gussied up for the big event and indeed, it is sight to behold, dressed with bright banners and lit with the firefly orbs that the Dalish use to guide their aravels by night. The nobility of Ferelden prides itself on being plain-spoken and unpretentious in contrast to the decadent Orlesians, but they are out in fine form tonight, swathed in lavish silks and rich brocades, gaudy plumes and ridiculous flounces that would make even a mage snicker.

Elendra has yet to put in an appearance, so I make the rounds on my own, glad-handing various arls and banns, offering my compliments to their offspring and frantically stuffing my face with food to prevent my foot from becoming permanently lodged in my mouth. It's all a good deal more cheery than Weisshaupt, but when I spot a chance to escape to the balcony for some air, I seize it without a moment's hesitation.

It's a balmy night and I can hear crickets chirping in the Royal Gardens below, their shrill voices contending with the din of the party inside, the minstrels striking up another boisterous tune, the ceaseless court chatter. Fort Drakon and the Tower of Denerim are ominous silhouettes against an inky sky speckled with stars.

"You have the right idea. It's a perfect night to be outdoors."

My wife appears beside me, a shaft of moonlight catching the graceful line of her neck and the pale sheen of her lavender gown. She leans over the balcony railing, smiling at the dark, dewy garden below.

"I wasn't sure you'd come tonight, my dear. I'm glad you did."

"I wouldn't miss it. Not for the world. Not even for the end of the world."

"An appointment with the archdemon couldn't drag you away?"

Elendra laughs. "Why, that's a dreadful thing to call your son, Alistair. Ciaran is just a trifle mischievous."

"Ha, yes, he's an infant ruffian, that one. I'm very fond of him."

"He adores you. You're marvellous with him. I always thought you'd be happier – with children."

"Len, I was happy before, too. When we married, I was aware that a child might not be a possibility."

Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. "Tell me, Alistair, can we be happy tonight? Do you think it's possible?"

"Yes. I think I do."

She grins. "How about a 'happily ever after'? Do you think we could try for it? Or am I getting too ambitious?"

"Len, I've always wanted you in my 'ever after'. Even if it can't always be happy."

She becomes bashful when she has to stop and swipe the tears from her eyes. "I don't know how you do it, Alistair Theirin, but you have a genius for saying the right thing at just the right moment. It's amazing."

"What can I say? I aim to please."

"I was wondering where that sarcasm of yours was hiding. I was worried you might've lost it in your luggage."

My throat is raw and it hurts to laugh. "No, it survived the journey intact. My socks, however, are full of holes."

"If you are very kind to me, perhaps I shall mend them."

"I knew there was a reason I married you."

"Oh, you're terrible!" she declares, and then she gives me a firm kiss, the kind of punishment that is not going to deter me from committing the crime.

I grin down at her, feeling lightheaded and a bit foolish, like a schoolboy. "Does this mean you're giving me permission to kiss you now?"

Len smiles. "I do. I did. Just kiss me and mean it, damn you."

I kiss her and kiss her again, letting my lips linger upon hers, letting my breath trace over her mouth, her neck. It's a warm night, but she trembles in my arms and it's hard not to think about her breasts pressing against the gauzy fabric of her gown. It's something I definitely shouldn't be thinking about, because I will have to go back and host a party and I don't fancy the idea of doing it with anything bulging or protruding in an embarrassingly tumescent manner that would make the Chantry ladies run screaming for the hills. That's not the sort of thing I want my reign to be know for.

I step back, turning towards the balcony railing and performing a few covert adjustments for propriety's sake. "I hate to be a spoilsport, my dear, but I expect our guests will be wondering if we've abandoned them."

"You're right," she says. "In any case, I'm glad that we stole a moment. To talk."

"Among other things."

"I think we shall have to abduct each other from duty more often."

"I would like that."

"I know that we can't fix everything in one night, but I'm happy you're here. I still love you. I want to fight for this."

It's hard not to smile at her solemnity. She takes things so seriously. Such a little achiever.

"Oh, you know me. Always fond of a good fight. Just hand me a sword and point me to the battlefield."

"It's this way," she says, gesturing to the Great Hall. "Are you ready to face your public, my king?"

"That I am, my queen."

Len takes my hand and we stride back into the ballroom, right in the middle of the minstrels' rousing rendition of "Greensleeves". Sometimes life is just funny like that. We're funny like that, too.

And so we go on, Elendra and I. We've always been the kind of people who thrive in adversity. She used to joke that Grey Wardens are like weeds that sprout up between rocks. It's not that far from the truth. If the Blight taught us anything, it was to search for beauty even in the dark, dusty corners, to laugh and lap up every drop of hope, when we could be sucking down despair like bitter dregs. And so we love one another, even at the price of the suffering that goes with it, even though I'm beginning to think that we will never really comprehend the crazy clockwork of our hearts.

I'm reminded of a verse from the Chant of Light, one of the many I learned and repeated thoughtlessly when I was a child. It's gotten better with time and it doesn't sound like such bleeding nonsense now. After everything that's happened, I'm starting to think I might've puzzled some meaning out of it:

"Though stung with a hundred arrows,

Though suffering from ailments both great and small,

His Heart was strong and he moved on".

That's the way it is with Len and me. And so we find forgiveness and begin again.


	17. A Terrible Beauty

**Morrigan**

If there is one thing I have learned in my seasons of prowling the Wilds, in nights spent gliding through pine glades on the wings of an owl and mornings spent lumbering along rivers, bundled in the shaggy cloak of a bear, it is this: nothing ever ends.

Oh, you may kill things, certainly. Wanton slaughter is accomplished easily enough. Why, just witness that simpleton Alistair and his aptitude for killing darkspawn. Even a child may show a talent for destruction; as a young girl, I was fond of crushing anthills beneath my heels. Death is no great wonder, merely a cessation of the heart, an emptying of the lungs. What comes after is the mystery. For the end of one life is usually just the start of something else, regardless of whether one has slain the corrupt vestiges of an Old God or simply murdered a meddling mother.

I toss more kindling into the fire and stir the stew to keep it from bubbling over. From my camp on the mountainside, I have a fine view of the village. This is useful, for I like to monitor my worshippers. They are busy little people, ceaselessly scurrying, and it would not do to have them plotting against me or my sacred charge. After all, the villagers didn't take well to the sacrifices at first, although they showed admirable pragmatism in the days thereafter. They have learned to embrace necessity but I must always remain vigilant, ready to respond to the faintest whiff of rebellion. It – the child, I suppose you could call it – must feed, and it will not settle for the simple meals that I have become accustomed to.

The villagers believe I am a second Andraste, if you can imagine it, one who tempted the Maker to carnal delights and bore his divine child. It's a pleasant heresy, I suppose. When religion weaves such a tapestry of gorgeous lies, the truth always becomes something of a disappointment. After all, who wants to admit that her child was sired by a ginger-haired bumbler who is incapable of darning his own socks? 'Twas not a night to remember, I promise you, but I came away with what I needed.

"One, two, Maric's run through..."

The girl has been wandering around my camp, picking clover and lilting out one of those moronic nursery rhymes all the village children seem to know by heart.

"Three, four, the kingdom's at war..."

I have tried to forbear and ignore the shrill, piping voice, but I cannot endure it a moment longer. It's as annoying as a mosquito whizzing around one's ears.

"Silence yourself, child, or I shall find a spell to knot your tongue."

The girl gapes at me, red hair falling over a pale, impudent face. A garter snake winds itself up the child's arm and then wraps itself around that reedy little throat, but it is no doing of mine. I am no charmer of serpents.

Tossing back her head, the girl gives a throaty chuckle. "Sweet Morrigan! Is that any way to greet your mother?"

There is a knife at the side of my campfire, the one I use to skin hares. I crouch down and grasp it. My other hand goes to my staff.

"So young, you look, Mother. And so helpless. I didn't think you would come so soon."

"Ungrateful child! I gave you everything and you betrayed me. Ha. Just as I taught you. I suppose I should congratulate you on a job well done."

Dippy old bat. She talks in riddles and ends up confusing or contradicting herself. There were days when I used to wonder if she was talking to me at all or if she was just quarrelling with her demon.

"You've certainly fallen in the world," I reply. "The first time around, you must have been difficult to kill. I doubt the second occasion will prove such a challenge. Are you even capable of magic?"

Flemeth removes the snake from her neck, giving its head an affectionate pat as she lays it on the ground. The creature is wise enough to wriggle away on its belly, as fast as it can manage.

"Oh, a little here and there. Parlour tricks, mostly," she says. "I had to slither around in that wee little snake for a while, until I found a girl with potential. Of course, my new body isn't as useful as yours would have been, my dear."

"How unfortunate for you, Mother. Perhaps one day I will remember to shed a tear."

"Those weapons aren't needed, girl. I'm not here to claim what's mine. Even if I were able to take it. You're beyond my reach now. It's maidens I need. And, from the change in your figure, it's obvious that you are a mother."

I scowl at her, bristling with hatred. Perhaps I have grown a tad wider about the hips and my breasts are much fuller now, it is true, but I can still fit into my old robes, even if they are snug at the chest and bunch a bit at thighs. Yes, there may have been some slight alterations in my appearance after the misery of child-bearing, but I am not a matron and only a fool would mistake me for one. I could still possess any man I pleased, if I felt the slightest inclination to indulge in coy games and useless seductions.

My lips twist into scornful smile and I brandish my hunting blade. "Tell me, Mother, have I ever mentioned how I loathe you? I think I shall use the knife this time. Magic is much too quick and clean."

"Don't be silly. I've come to suggest a truce. Even, perhaps, to propose a partnership. We're nearly equals now, you and I. And we're strongest together."

"And why would I be willing to do that?"

"Because I still have secrets, Morrigan. The kind of secrets that you dream about. Without me, you haven't the faintest idea what to do with the child."

"I do, indeed -"

"Run off to the Frostbacks and become high priestess of a quaint little cult? Pah! Uthamiel is worth much more than this and you know it. If you're going to steal the soul of an Old God, at least let me show you what to do with it."

I press the knife to the girl's throat and pray that Mother will feel the pain. "Very well, Flemeth. Why don't you just tell me? Quickly, now."

"No, not yet, I think. Ha! The young are so impatient. You may slit my throat if you like, Morrigan. We're both aware that knowledge is more precious than blood."

I lower the knife, knowing already that I'm going to repent of this. I should not have hesitated. I should have killed her and left the body to the crows. If Mother is wise, she will not mistake my curiosity for mercy. I would not spare her if I could not find a use for her centuries and centuries of experience - she is terribly ancient. One would hope nature would offer some wisdom to compensate for her senile madness and the musty old-lady odour has followed her even in her fresh new body.

"Very well. I will entertain your idea. For a time."

She chuckles, unfazed by the trail of blood dripping from the wound on her neck. "Mother knows best, Morrigan. Mother always knows best."

"We shall see, won't we?"

"Indeed, we shall. Now, where are you hiding my little grandchild, Morrigan? It's locked in the wood hut, I suppose?"

It is not a 'wood hut'. It is a temple, albeit a primitive one, built by the village's simple craftsmen. It is actually much grander than Mother's old shack in the Wilds, but she will go on deriding it anyway, just because it's something that I managed all on my own.

"I don't remember giving you permission to see it, Mother."

"I can't help you unless I'm able to see the child. Seeing is believing, as they say. Or believing is seeing. I always forget which."

"And I suppose you expect me to trust you?"

"I would be disappointed if you did! But it's fun to gamble, isn't it? It's very nice if you win and if you lose, well, at least you did something interesting."

I show her into the temple, past the wooden pews and the rough-hewn altar, to the place where I keep it -the child- tethered. It is gratifying to see Mother overawed, astounded by the transformation in process. Uthamiel's soul is powerful, mortifying the frail human body. Strips of skin are peeling back to reveal golden scales. The spine rises in sharp ridges and iridescent wings cut through the soft flesh of the back. When Uthamiel speaks, Flemeth trembles. I smile, vindicated.

A terrible beauty is born.

_- Fin -_

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_Author's Note:_

_And it's done! I'd like to offer a huge "thank you" to everyone who took the time to read and/or review this story. The feedback was great and provided extremely valuable input for the development of my writing - in fact, it lead to the expansion of this series to 17 chapters, from my original idea of writing 5 first-person one-shots detailing a cynical take on one of the more typical "happy endings" for Dragon Age: Origins. _

_This is an odd sort of story, both in terms of form and focus, one that I actually structured on a pattern for experimental purposes (begin with a death that makes people happy, end with a birth that makes people unhappy - have 5 sets of sequential chapters for Zevran, Elendra and Alistair in the middle). I realized going in that the black humour, skeptical outlook and lack of complete narrative resolution wouldn't necessarily appeal to every reader's taste (as Morrigan says, "Never ever ends..."), but I've definitely had fun playing with DAO and I'm glad to discover that some people have enjoyed my efforts. _

_Thanks again for reading - and for your input, ideas, support and sometimes, debate! Until my next story, I hope you all live happily ever after... :P_

_ - FD_


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